Дэвид Копперфильд

I Make Another Beginning

           Itbelongedtoared-hairedpersonayouthoffifteen,asItakeitnow,butlookingmucholderwhosehairwascroppedascloseasthecloseststubble;whohadhardlyanyeyebrows,andnoeyelashes,andeyesofared-brown,sounshelteredandunshaded,thatIrememberwonderinghowhewenttosleep.Hewashigh-shoulderedandbony;dressedindecentblack,withawhitewispofaneckcloth;buttoneduptothethroat;andhadalong,lank,skeletonhand,whichparticularlyattractedmyattention,ashestoodatthepony’shead,rubbinghischinwithit,andlookingupatusinthechaise.

           ‘IsMr.Wickfieldathome,UriahHeep?’saidmyaunt.

           ‘Mr.Wickfield’sathome,ma’am,’saidUriahHeep,‘ifyou’llpleasetowalkinthere’pointingwithhislonghandtotheroomhemeant.

           Wegotout;andleavinghimtoholdthepony,wentintoalonglowparlourlookingtowardsthestreet,fromthewindowofwhichIcaughtaglimpse,asIwentin,ofUriahHeepbreathingintothepony’snostrils,andimmediatelycoveringthemwithhishand,asifhewereputtingsomespelluponhim.Oppositetothetalloldchimney-pieceweretwoportraits:oneofagentlemanwithgreyhair(thoughnotbyanymeansanoldman)andblackeyebrows,whowaslookingoversomepaperstiedtogetherwithredtape;theother,ofalady,withaveryplacidandsweetexpressionofface,whowaslookingatme.

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