Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           ‘Whatridiculousmen!An’tthey?Davydear

           ‘Well,Ma.’

           ‘Don’ttellPeggotty;shemightbeangrywiththem.Iamdreadfullyangrywiththemmyself;butIwouldratherPeggottydidn’tknow.’

           Ipromised,ofcourse;andwekissedoneanotheroverandoveragain,andIsoonfellfastasleep.

           Itseemstome,atthisdistanceoftime,asifitwerethenextdaywhenPeggottybroachedthestrikingandadventurouspropositionIamabouttomention;butitwasprobablyabouttwomonthsafterwards.

           Weweresittingasbefore,oneevening(whenmymotherwasoutasbefore),incompanywiththestockingandtheyard-measure,andthebitofwax,andtheboxwithSt.Paul’sonthelid,andthecrocodilebook,whenPeggotty,afterlookingatmeseveraltimes,andopeninghermouthasifsheweregoingtospeak,withoutdoingitwhichIthoughtwasmerelygaping,orIshouldhavebeenratheralarmedsaidcoaxingly:

           ‘MasterDavy,howshouldyouliketogoalongwithmeandspendafortnightatmybrother’satYarmouth?Wouldn’tthatbeatreat?’

           ‘Isyourbrotheranagreeableman,Peggotty?’Iinquired,provisionally.

           ‘Oh,whatanagreeablemanheis!’criedPeggotty,holdingupherhands.

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