Дэвид Копперфильд

My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me

           DickhadbeenforupwardsoftenyearsendeavouringtokeepKingCharlestheFirstoutoftheMemorial;buthehadbeenconstantlygettingintoit,andwastherenow.

           ‘Isayagain,’saidmyaunt,‘nobodyknowswhatthatman’smindisexceptmyself;andhe’sthemostamenableandfriendlycreatureinexistence.Ifhelikestoflyakitesometimes,whatofthat!Franklinusedtoflyakite.HewasaQuaker,orsomethingofthatsort,ifIamnotmistaken.AndaQuakerflyingakiteisamuchmoreridiculousobjectthananybodyelse.’

           IfIcouldhavesupposedthatmyaunthadrecountedtheseparticularsformyespecialbehoof,andasapieceofconfidenceinme,Ishouldhavefeltverymuchdistinguished,andshouldhaveauguredfavourablyfromsuchamarkofhergoodopinion.ButIcouldhardlyhelpobservingthatshehadlaunchedintothem,chieflybecausethequestionwasraisedinherownmind,andwithverylittlereferencetome,thoughshehadaddressedherselftomeintheabsenceofanybodyelse.

           Atthesametime,ImustsaythatthegenerosityofherchampionshipofpoorharmlessMr.Dick,notonlyinspiredmyyoungbreastwithsomeselfishhopeformyself,butwarmeditunselfishlytowardsher.IbelievethatIbegantoknowthattherewassomethingaboutmyaunt,notwithstandinghermanyeccentricitiesandoddhumours,tobehonouredandtrustedin.

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