Дэвид Копперфильд

My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me

           

           ‘Allowmetoinquire,MissTrotwood,’interposedMissMurdstone,‘whomyouarepleasedtocall,inachoiceofwordsinwhichIamnotexperienced,mybrother’sinstruments?’

           ‘Itwasclearenough,asIhavetoldyou,yearsbeforeYOUeversawherandwhy,inthemysteriousdispensationsofProvidence,youeverdidseeher,ismorethanhumanitycancomprehenditwasclearenoughthatthepoorsoftlittlethingwouldmarrysomebody,atsometimeorother;butIdidhopeitwouldn’thavebeenasbadasithasturnedout.Thatwasthetime,Mr.Murdstone,whenshegavebirthtoherboyhere,’saidmyaunt;‘tothepoorchildyousometimestormentedherthroughafterwards,whichisadisagreeableremembranceandmakesthesightofhimodiousnow.Aye,aye!youneedn’twince!’saidmyaunt.‘Iknowit’struewithoutthat.’

           Hehadstoodbythedoor,allthiswhile,observantofherwithasmileuponhisface,thoughhisblackeyebrowswereheavilycontracted.Iremarkednow,that,thoughthesmilewasonhisfacestill,hiscolourhadgoneinamoment,andheseemedtobreatheasifhehadbeenrunning.

           ‘Goodday,sir,’saidmyaunt,‘andgood-bye!Gooddaytoyou,too,ma’am,’saidmyaunt,turningsuddenlyuponhissister.

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