Дэвид Копперфильд

Somebody Turns up

           Itakeit,thathaditseffectuponme,asatouchofnature;buttheskillwithwhichtheonefollowedupwhatevertheothersaid,wasatouchofartwhichIwasstilllessproofagainst.Whentherewasnothingmoretobegotoutofmeaboutmyself(forontheMurdstoneandGrinbylife,andonmyjourney,Iwasdumb),theybeganaboutMr.WickfieldandAgnes.UriahthrewtheballtoMrs.Heep,Mrs.HeepcaughtitandthrewitbacktoUriah,Uriahkeptitupalittlewhile,thensentitbacktoMrs.Heep,andsotheywentontossingitaboutuntilIhadnoideawhohadgotit,andwasquitebewildered.Theballitselfwasalwayschangingtoo.NowitwasMr.Wickfield,nowAgnes,nowtheexcellenceofMr.Wickfield,nowmyadmirationofAgnes;nowtheextentofMr.Wickfield’sbusinessandresources,nowourdomesticlifeafterdinner;now,thewinethatMr.Wickfieldtook,thereasonwhyhetookit,andthepitythatitwashetooksomuch;nowonething,nowanother,theneverythingatonce;andallthetime,withoutappearingtospeakveryoften,ortodoanythingbutsometimesencouragethemalittle,forfeartheyshouldbeovercomebytheirhumilityandthehonourofmycompany,IfoundmyselfperpetuallylettingoutsomethingorotherthatIhadnobusinesstoletoutandseeingtheeffectofitinthetwinklingofUriah’sdintednostrils.

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