Дэвид Копперфильд

Somebody Turns up

           Dick,whensoeverheshouldnotfindmeatthecoachoffice,tocomeonthere,andresthimselfuntilourmorning’sworkwasover,itsoonpassedintoacustomforMr.Dicktocomeonasamatterofcourse,and,ifwewerealittlelate,asoftenhappenedonaWednesday,towalkaboutthecourtyard,waitingforme.HerehemadetheacquaintanceoftheDoctor’sbeautifulyoungwife(palerthanformerly,allthistime;morerarelyseenbymeoranyone,Ithink;andnotsogay,butnotlessbeautiful),andsobecamemoreandmorefamiliarbydegrees,until,atlast,hewouldcomeintotheschoolandwait.Healwayssatinaparticularcorner,onaparticularstool,whichwascalled‘Dick’,afterhim;herehewouldsit,withhisgreyheadbentforward,attentivelylisteningtowhatevermightbegoingon,withaprofoundvenerationforthelearninghehadneverbeenabletoacquire.

           ThisvenerationMr.DickextendedtotheDoctor,whomhethoughtthemostsubtleandaccomplishedphilosopherofanyage.ItwaslongbeforeMr.Dickeverspoketohimotherwisethanbareheaded;andevenwhenheandtheDoctorhadstruckupquiteafriendship,andwouldwalktogetherbythehour,onthatsideofthecourtyardwhichwasknownamongusasTheDoctor’sWalk,Mr.Dickwouldpulloffhishatatintervalstoshowhisrespectforwisdomandknowledge.HowitevercameaboutthattheDoctorbegantoreadoutscrapsofthefamousDictionary,inthesewalks,Ineverknew;perhapshefeltitallthesame,atfirst,asreadingtohimself.

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