Дэвид Копперфильд

Somebody Turns up

           Therewasachestofdrawerswithanescritoiretop,forUriahtoreadorwriteatofanevening;therewasUriah’sbluebaglyingdownandvomitingpapers;therewasacompanyofUriah’sbookscommandedbyMr.Tidd;therewasacornercupboard:andthereweretheusualarticlesoffurniture.Idon’trememberthatanyindividualobjecthadabare,pinched,sparelook;butIdorememberthatthewholeplacehad.

           ItwasperhapsapartofMrs.Heep’shumility,thatshestillworeweeds.NotwithstandingthelapseoftimethathadoccurredsinceMr.Heep’sdecease,shestillworeweeds.Ithinktherewassomecompromiseinthecap;butotherwiseshewasasweedyasintheearlydaysofhermourning.

           ‘Thisisadaytoberemembered,myUriah,Iamsure,’saidMrs.Heep,makingthetea,‘whenMasterCopperfieldpaysusavisit.’

           ‘Isaidyou’dthinkso,mother,’saidUriah.

           ‘IfIcouldhavewishedfathertoremainamongusforanyreason,’saidMrs.Heep,‘itwouldhavebeen,thathemighthaveknownhiscompanythisafternoon.’

           Ifeltembarrassedbythesecompliments;butIwassensible,too,ofbeingentertainedasanhonouredguest,andIthoughtMrs.Heepanagreeablewoman.

           ‘MyUriah,’saidMrs.Heep,‘haslookedforwardtothis,sir,alongwhile.Hehadhisfearsthatourumblenessstoodintheway,andIjoinedinthemmyself.Umbleweare,umblewehavebeen,umbleweshalleverbe,’saidMrs.Heep.

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