Дэвид Копперфильд

My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me

           Murdstone,shrugginghisshoulders,asherose,‘ifyouwereagentleman——’

           ‘Bah!Stuffandnonsense!’saidmyaunt.‘Don’ttalktome!’

           ‘Howexquisitelypolite!’exclaimedMissMurdstone,rising.‘Overpowering,really!’

           ‘DoyouthinkIdon’tknow,’saidmyaunt,turningadeafeartothesister,andcontinuingtoaddressthebrother,andtoshakeherheadathimwithinfiniteexpression,‘whatkindoflifeyoumusthaveledthatpoor,unhappy,misdirectedbaby?DoyouthinkIdon’tknowwhatawoefuldayitwasforthesoftlittlecreaturewhenyoufirstcameinherway—smirkingandmakinggreateyesather,I’llbebound,asifyoucouldn’tsayboh!toagoose!’

           ‘Ineverheardanythingsoelegant!’saidMissMurdstone.

           ‘DoyouthinkIcan’tunderstandyouaswellasifIhadseenyou,’pursuedmyaunt,‘nowthatIDOseeandhearyouwhich,Itellyoucandidly,isanythingbutapleasuretome?Ohyes,blessus!whososmoothandsilkyasMr.Murdstoneatfirst!Thepoor,benightedinnocenthadneverseensuchaman.Hewasmadeofsweetness.Heworshippedher.Hedotedonherboy—tenderlydotedonhim!Hewastobeanotherfathertohim,andtheywerealltolivetogetherinagardenofroses,weren’tthey?Ugh!Getalongwithyou,do!’saidmyaunt.

           ‘Ineverheardanythinglikethispersoninmylife!’exclaimedMissMurdstone.

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