Дэвид Копперфильд

I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like it

           Iwentin,andfoundthereastoutish,middle-agedperson,inabrownsurtoutandblacktightsandshoes,withnomorehairuponhishead(whichwasalargeone,andveryshining)thanthereisuponanegg,andwithaveryextensiveface,whichheturnedfulluponme.Hisclotheswereshabby,buthehadanimposingshirt-collaron.Hecarriedajauntysortofastick,withalargepairofrustytasselstoit;andaquizzing-glasshungoutsidehiscoat,forornament,Iafterwardsfound,asheveryseldomlookedthroughit,andcouldn’tseeanythingwhenhedid.

           ‘This,’saidMr.Quinion,inallusiontomyself,‘ishe.’

           ‘This,’saidthestranger,withacertaincondescendingrollinhisvoice,andacertainindescribableairofdoingsomethinggenteel,whichimpressedmeverymuch,‘isMasterCopperfield.IhopeIseeyouwell,sir?’

           IsaidIwasverywell,andhopedhewas.Iwassufficientlyillatease,Heavenknows;butitwasnotinmynaturetocomplainmuchatthattimeofmylife,soIsaidIwasverywell,andhopedhewas.

           ‘Iam,’saidthestranger,‘thankHeaven,quitewell.IhavereceivedaletterfromMr.

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