Дэвид Копперфильд

I Make Another Beginning

           

           Myaunt,whowasperfectlyindifferenttopublicopinion,drovethegreyponythroughDoverinamasterlymanner;sittinghighandstifflikeastatecoachman,keepingasteadyeyeuponhimwhereverhewent,andmakingapointofnotlettinghimhavehisownwayinanyrespect.Whenwecameintothecountryroad,shepermittedhimtorelaxalittle,however;andlookingatmedowninavalleyofcushionbyherside,askedmewhetherIwashappy?

           ‘Veryhappyindeed,thankyou,aunt,’Isaid.

           Shewasmuchgratified;andbothherhandsbeingoccupied,pattedmeontheheadwithherwhip.

           ‘Isitalargeschool,aunt?’Iasked.

           ‘Why,Idon’tknow,’saidmyaunt.‘WearegoingtoMr.Wickfield’sfirst.’

           ‘Doeshekeepaschool?’Iasked.

           ‘No,Trot,’saidmyaunt.‘Hekeepsanoffice.’

           IaskedfornomoreinformationaboutMr.Wickfield,assheofferednone,andweconversedonothersubjectsuntilwecametoCanterbury,where,asitwasmarket-day,myaunthadagreatopportunityofinsinuatingthegreyponyamongcarts,baskets,vegetables,andhuckster’sgoods.Thehair-breadthturnsandtwistswemade,drewdownuponusavarietyofspeechesfromthepeoplestandingabout,whichwerenotalwayscomplimentary;butmyauntdroveonwithperfectindifference,andIdaresaywouldhavetakenherownwaywithasmuchcoolnessthroughanenemy’scountry.

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Roboto Lora
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