Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           Therewasagoodfireintheroom,andabreathlesssmellofwarmblackcrapeIdidnotknowwhatthesmellwasthen,butIknownow.

           Thethreeyoungwomen,whoappearedtobeveryindustriousandcomfortable,raisedtheirheadstolookatme,andthenwentonwiththeirwork.Stitch,stitch,stitch.Atthesametimetherecamefromaworkshopacrossalittleyardoutsidethewindow,aregularsoundofhammeringthatkeptakindoftune:RATtat-tat,RATtat-tat,RATtat-tat,withoutanyvariation.

           ‘Well,’saidmyconductortooneofthethreeyoungwomen.‘Howdoyougeton,Minnie?’

           ‘Weshallbereadybythetrying-ontime,’sherepliedgaily,withoutlookingup.‘Don’tyoubeafraid,father.’

           Mr.Omertookoffhisbroad-brimmedhat,andsatdownandpanted.Hewassofatthathewasobligedtopantsometimebeforehecouldsay:

           ‘That’sright.’

           ‘Father!’saidMinnie,playfully.‘Whataporpoiseyoudogrow!’

           ‘Well,Idon’tknowhowitis,mydear,’hereplied,consideringaboutit.‘Iamratherso.’

           ‘Youaresuchacomfortableman,yousee,’saidMinnie.‘Youtakethingssoeasy.’

           ‘Nousetaking‘emotherwise,mydear,’saidMr.Omer.

           ‘No,indeed,’returnedhisdaughter.‘Weareallprettygayhere,thankHeaven!Ain’twe,father?’

           ‘Ihopeso,mydear,’saidMr.Omer.

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