Дэвид Копперфильд

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

           Murdstone,inwhichhementionsthathewoulddesiremetoreceiveintoanapartmentintherearofmyhouse,whichisatpresentunoccupiedandis,inshort,tobeletasa—inshort,’saidthestranger,withasmileandinaburstofconfidence,‘asabedroom—theyoungbeginnerwhomIhavenowthepleasureto——’andthestrangerwavedhishand,andsettledhischininhisshirt-collar.

           ‘ThisisMr.Micawber,’saidMr.Quiniontome.

           ‘Ahem!’saidthestranger,‘thatismyname.’

           ‘Mr.Micawber,’saidMr.Quinion,‘isknowntoMr.Murdstone.Hetakesordersforusoncommission,whenhecangetany.HehasbeenwrittentobyMr.Murdstone,onthesubjectofyourlodgings,andhewillreceiveyouasalodger.’

           ‘Myaddress,’saidMr.Micawber,‘isWindsorTerrace,CityRoad.I—inshort,’saidMr.Micawber,withthesamegenteelair,andinanotherburstofconfidence—‘Ilivethere.’

           Imadehimabow.

           ‘Undertheimpression,’saidMr.Micawber,‘thatyourperegrinationsinthismetropolishavenotasyetbeenextensive,andthatyoumighthavesomedifficultyinpenetratingthearcanaoftheModernBabyloninthedirectionoftheCityRoad,—inshort,’saidMr.Micawber,inanotherburstofconfidence,‘thatyoumightloseyourself—Ishallbehappytocallthisevening,andinstallyouintheknowledgeofthenearestway.

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