Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           

           Wewalkedaboutonthecliffafterthat,andsatonthegrass,andlookedatthingsthroughatelescopeIcouldmakeoutnothingmyselfwhenitwasputtomyeye,butIpretendedIcouldandthenwecamebacktothehoteltoanearlydinner.Allthetimewewereout,thetwogentlemensmokedincessantlywhich,Ithought,ifImightjudgefromthesmelloftheirroughcoats,theymusthavebeendoing,eversincethecoatshadfirstcomehomefromthetailor’s.Imustnotforgetthatwewentonboardtheyacht,wheretheyallthreedescendedintothecabin,andwerebusywithsomepapers.Isawthemquitehardatwork,whenIlookeddownthroughtheopenskylight.Theyleftme,duringthistime,withaverynicemanwithaverylargeheadofredhairandaverysmallshinyhatuponit,whohadgotacross-barredshirtorwaistcoaton,with‘Skylark’incapitallettersacrossthechest.Ithoughtitwashisname;andthatashelivedonboardshipandhadn’tastreetdoortoputhisnameon,heputitthereinstead;butwhenIcalledhimMr.Skylark,hesaiditmeantthevessel.

           IobservedalldaythatMr.Murdstonewasgraverandsteadierthanthetwogentlemen.Theywereverygayandcareless.Theyjokedfreelywithoneanother,butseldomwithhim.Itappearedtomethathewasmorecleverandcoldthantheywere,andthattheyregardedhimwithsomethingofmyownfeeling.Iremarkedthat,onceortwicewhenMr.Quinionwastalking,helookedatMr.

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