Дэвид Копперфильд

Somebody Turns up

           Dick,‘was-letmesee-sixteenhundredandforty-ninewasthedateofKingCharles’sexecution.Ithinkyousaidsixteenhundredandforty-nine?’

           ‘Yes,sir.’

           ‘Idon’tknowhowitcanbe,’saidMr.Dick,sorelypuzzledandshakinghishead.‘Idon’tthinkIamasoldasthat.’

           ‘Wasitinthatyearthatthemanappeared,sir?’Iasked.

           ‘Why,really’saidMr.Dick,‘Idon’tseehowitcanhavebeeninthatyear,Trotwood.Didyougetthatdateoutofhistory?’

           ‘Yes,sir.’

           ‘Isupposehistoryneverlies,doesit?’saidMr.Dick,withagleamofhope.

           ‘Ohdear,no,sir!’Ireplied,mostdecisively.Iwasingenuousandyoung,andIthoughtso.

           ‘Ican’tmakeitout,’saidMr.Dick,shakinghishead.‘There’ssomethingwrong,somewhere.However,itwasverysoonafterthemistakewasmadeofputtingsomeofthetroubleoutofKingCharles’sheadintomyhead,thatthemanfirstcame.IwaswalkingoutwithMissTrotwoodaftertea,justatdark,andtherehewas,closetoourhouse.’

           ‘Walkingabout?’Iinquired.

           ‘Walkingabout?’repeatedMr.Dick.‘Letmesee,Imustrecollectabit.N-no,no;hewasnotwalkingabout.’

           Iasked,astheshortestwaytogetatit,whatheWASdoing.

           ‘Well,hewasn’tthereatall,’saidMr.Dick,‘untilhecameupbehindher,andwhispered.

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