Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           Hisbedstead,coveredwithatumbledandraggedpieceofpatchwork,wasinthedenhehadcomefrom,whereanotherlittlewindowshowedaprospectofmorestinging-nettles,andalamedonkey.

           ‘Oh,whatdoyouwant?’grinnedthisoldman,inafierce,monotonouswhine.‘Oh,myeyesandlimbs,whatdoyouwant?Oh,mylungsandliver,whatdoyouwant?Oh,goroo,goroo!’

           Iwassomuchdismayedbythesewords,andparticularlybytherepetitionofthelastunknownone,whichwasakindofrattleinhisthroat,thatIcouldmakenoanswer;hereupontheoldman,stillholdingmebythehair,repeated:

           ‘Oh,whatdoyouwant?Oh,myeyesandlimbs,whatdoyouwant?Oh,mylungsandliver,whatdoyouwant?Oh,goroo!’whichhescrewedoutofhimself,withanenergythatmadehiseyesstartinhishead.

           ‘Iwantedtoknow,’Isaid,trembling,‘ifyouwouldbuyajacket.’

           ‘Oh,let’sseethejacket!’criedtheoldman.‘Oh,myheartonfire,showthejackettous!Oh,myeyesandlimbs,bringthejacketout!’

           Withthathetookhistremblinghands,whichwereliketheclawsofagreatbird,outofmyhair;andputonapairofspectacles,notatallornamentaltohisinflamedeyes.

           ‘Oh,howmuchforthejacket?’criedtheoldman,afterexaminingit.‘Ohgoroo!howmuchforthejacket?’

           ‘Half-a-crown,’Ianswered,recoveringmyself.

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