Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           

           ‘Well,’returnedmymother,halflaughing,‘andifsheissosillyastosayso,canIbeblamedforit?’

           ‘Noonesaysyoucan,’saidPeggotty.

           ‘No,Ishouldhopenot,indeed!’returnedmymother.‘Haven’tyouheardhersay,overandoveragain,thatonthisaccountshewishedtosparemeagreatdealoftrouble,whichshethinksIamnotsuitedfor,andwhichIreallydon’tknowmyselfthatIAMsuitedfor;andisn’tsheupearlyandlate,andgoingtoandfrocontinuallyanddoesn’tshedoallsortsofthings,andgropeintoallsortsofplaces,coal-holesandpantriesandIdon’tknowwhere,thatcan’tbeveryagreeableanddoyoumeantoinsinuatethatthereisnotasortofdevotioninthat?’

           ‘Idon’tinsinuateatall,’saidPeggotty.

           ‘Youdo,Peggotty,’returnedmymother.‘Youneverdoanythingelse,exceptyourwork.Youarealwaysinsinuating.Yourevelinit.AndwhenyoutalkofMr.Murdstone’sgoodintentions

           ‘Inevertalkedof‘em,’saidPeggotty.

           ‘No,Peggotty,’returnedmymother,‘butyouinsinuated.That’swhatItoldyoujustnow.That’stheworstofyou.YouWILLinsinuate.Isaid,atthemoment,thatIunderstoodyou,andyouseeIdid.WhenyoutalkofMr.

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