Дэвид Копперфильд

My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me

           

           Myauntwasalittlemoreimperiousandsternthanusual,butIobservednoothertokenofherpreparingherselftoreceivethevisitorsomuchdreadedbyme.Shesatatworkinthewindow,andIsatby,withmythoughtsrunningastrayonallpossibleandimpossibleresultsofMr.Murdstone’svisit,untilprettylateintheafternoon.Ourdinnerhadbeenindefinitelypostponed;butitwasgrowingsolate,thatmyaunthadorderedittobegotready,whenshegaveasuddenalarmofdonkeys,andtomyconsternationandamazement,IbeheldMissMurdstone,onaside-saddle,ridedeliberatelyoverthesacredpieceofgreen,andstopinfrontofthehouse,lookingabouther.

           ‘Goalongwithyou!’criedmyaunt,shakingherheadandherfistatthewindow.‘Youhavenobusinessthere.Howdareyoutrespass?Goalong!Oh!youbold-facedthing!’

           MyauntwassoexasperatedbythecoolnesswithwhichMissMurdstonelookedabouther,thatIreallybelieveshewasmotionless,andunableforthemomenttodartoutaccordingtocustom.Iseizedtheopportunitytoinformherwhoitwas;andthatthegentlemannowcomingneartheoffender(forthewayupwasverysteep,andhehaddroppedbehind),wasMr.Murdstonehimself.

           ‘Idon’tcarewhoitis!’criedmyaunt,stillshakingherheadandgesticulatinganythingbutwelcomefromthebow-window.‘Iwon’tbetrespassedupon.Iwon’tallowit.Goaway!Janet,turnhimround.

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