Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           

           ‘Whatcanhaveputsuchapersoninyourhead?’inquiredmymother.‘Istherenobodyelseintheworldtocomethere?’

           ‘Idon’tknowhowitis,’saidPeggotty,‘unlessit’sonaccountofbeingstupid,butmyheadnevercanpickandchooseitspeople.Theycomeandtheygo,andtheydon’tcomeandtheydon’tgo,justastheylike.Iwonderwhat’sbecomeofher?’

           ‘Howabsurdyouare,Peggotty!’returnedmymother.‘Onewouldsupposeyouwantedasecondvisitfromher.’

           ‘Lordforbid!’criedPeggotty.

           ‘Wellthen,don’ttalkaboutsuchuncomfortablethings,there’sagoodsoul,’saidmymother.‘MissBetseyisshutupinhercottagebythesea,nodoubt,andwillremainthere.Atallevents,sheisnotlikelyevertotroubleusagain.’

           ‘No!’musedPeggotty.‘No,thatain’tlikelyatall.Iwonder,ifshewastodie,whethershe’dleaveDavyanything?’

           ‘Goodgraciousme,Peggotty,’returnedmymother,‘whatanonsensicalwomanyouare!whenyouknowthatshetookoffenceatthepoordearboy’severbeingbornatall.’

           ‘Isupposeshewouldn’tbeinclinedtoforgivehimnow,’hintedPeggotty.

           ‘Whyshouldshebeinclinedtoforgivehimnow?’saidmymother,rathersharply.

           ‘Nowthathe’sgotabrother,Imean,’saidPeggotty.

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