Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am a New Boy in More Senses than One

           JackMaldon’sdepartureforIndia,whitherhewasgoingasacadet,orsomethingofthatkind:Mr.Wickfieldhavingatlengtharrangedthebusiness.IthappenedtobetheDoctor’sbirthday,too.Wehadhadaholiday,hadmadepresentstohiminthemorning,hadmadeaspeechtohimthroughthehead-boy,andhadcheeredhimuntilwewerehoarse,anduntilhehadshedtears.Andnow,intheevening,Mr.Wickfield,Agnes,andI,wenttohaveteawithhiminhisprivatecapacity.

           Mr.JackMaldonwasthere,beforeus.Mrs.Strong,dressedinwhite,withcherry-colouredribbons,wasplayingthepiano,whenwewentin;andhewasleaningoverhertoturntheleaves.Theclearredandwhiteofhercomplexionwasnotsobloomingandflower-likeasusual,Ithought,whensheturnedround;butshelookedverypretty,Wonderfullypretty.

           ‘Ihaveforgotten,Doctor,’saidMrs.Strong’smama,whenwewereseated,‘topayyouthecomplimentsofthedaythoughtheyare,asyoumaysuppose,veryfarfrombeingmerecomplimentsinmycase.Allowmetowishyoumanyhappyreturns.’

           ‘Ithankyou,ma’am,’repliedtheDoctor.

           ‘Many,many,many,happyreturns,’saidtheOldSoldier.‘Notonlyforyourownsake,butforAnnie’s,andJohnMaldon’s,andmanyotherpeople’s.Itseemsbutyesterdaytome,John,whenyouwerealittlecreature,aheadshorterthanMasterCopperfield,makingbabylovetoAnniebehindthegooseberrybushesintheback-garden.

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