Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           

           Itwasalikelyplacetosellajacketin;forthedealersinsecond-handclotheswerenumerous,andwere,generallyspeaking,onthelook-outforcustomersattheirshopdoors.Butasmostofthemhad,hangingupamongtheirstock,anofficer’scoatortwo,epaulettesandall,Iwasrenderedtimidbythecostlynatureoftheirdealings,andwalkedaboutforalongtimewithoutofferingmymerchandisetoanyone.

           Thismodestyofminedirectedmyattentiontothemarine-storeshops,andsuchshopsasMr.Dolloby’s,inpreferencetotheregulardealers.AtlastIfoundonethatIthoughtlookedpromising,atthecornerofadirtylane,endinginanenclosurefullofstinging-nettles,againstthepalingsofwhichsomesecond-handsailors’clothes,thatseemedtohaveoverflowedtheshop,wereflutteringamongsomecots,andrustyguns,andoilskinhats,andcertaintraysfullofsomanyoldrustykeysofsomanysizesthattheyseemedvariousenoughtoopenallthedoorsintheworld.

           Intothisshop,whichwaslowandsmall,andwhichwasdarkenedratherthanlightedbyalittlewindow,overhungwithclothes,andwasdescendedintobysomesteps,Iwentwithapalpitatingheart;whichwasnotrelievedwhenanuglyoldman,withthelowerpartofhisfaceallcoveredwithastubblygreybeard,rushedoutofadirtydenbehindit,andseizedmebythehairofmyhead.Hewasadreadfuloldmantolookat,inafilthyflannelwaistcoat,andsmellingterriblyofrum.

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