Дэвид Копперфильд

My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me

           Beaslikeyoursisterasyoucan,andspeakout!’

           ‘IsheisMr.DickIaskbecauseIdon’tknow,auntisheatalloutofhismind,then?’Istammered;forIfeltIwasondangerousground.

           ‘Notamorsel,’saidmyaunt.

           ‘Oh,indeed!’Iobservedfaintly.

           ‘Ifthereisanythingintheworld,’saidmyaunt,withgreatdecisionandforceofmanner,‘thatMr.Dickisnot,it’sthat.’

           Ihadnothingbettertooffer,thananothertimid,‘Oh,indeed!’

           ‘HehasbeenCALLEDmad,’saidmyaunt.‘Ihaveaselfishpleasureinsayinghehasbeencalledmad,orIshouldnothavehadthebenefitofhissocietyandadvicefortheselasttenyearsandupwardsinfact,eversinceyoursister,BetseyTrotwood,disappointedme.’

           ‘Solongasthat?’Isaid.

           ‘Andnicepeopletheywere,whohadtheaudacitytocallhimmad,’pursuedmyaunt.‘Mr.Dickisasortofdistantconnexionofmine-itdoesn’tmatterhow;Ineedn’tenterintothat.Ifithadn’tbeenforme,hisownbrotherwouldhaveshuthimupforlife.That’sall.’

           Iamafraiditwashypocriticalinme,butseeingthatmyauntfeltstronglyonthesubject,ItriedtolookasifIfeltstronglytoo.

           ‘Aproudfool!’saidmyaunt.

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