Дэвид Копперфильд

Somebody Turns up

           

           Ihadbeguntobealittleuncomfortable,andtowishmyselfwelloutofthevisit,whenafigurecomingdownthestreetpassedthedoor—itstoodopentoairtheroom,whichwaswarm,theweatherbeingcloseforthetimeofyearcamebackagain,lookedin,andwalkedin,exclaimingloudly,‘Copperfield!Isitpossible?’

           ItwasMr.Micawber!ItwasMr.Micawber,withhiseye-glass,andhiswalking-stick,andhisshirt-collar,andhisgenteelair,andthecondescendingrollinhisvoice,allcomplete!

           ‘MydearCopperfield,’saidMr.Micawber,puttingouthishand,‘thisisindeedameetingwhichiscalculatedtoimpressthemindwithasenseoftheinstabilityanduncertaintyofallhuman—inshort,itisamostextraordinarymeeting.Walkingalongthestreet,reflectingupontheprobabilityofsomethingturningup(ofwhichIamatpresentrathersanguine),Ifindayoungbutvaluedfriendturnup,whoisconnectedwiththemosteventfulperiodofmylife;Imaysay,withtheturning-pointofmyexistence.Copperfield,mydearfellow,howdoyoudo?’

           Icannotsay—Ireallycannotsay—thatIwasgladtoseeMr.Micawberthere;butIwasgladtoseehimtoo,andshookhandswithhim,heartily,inquiringhowMrs.Micawberwas.

           ‘Thankyou,’saidMr.Micawber,wavinghishandasofold,andsettlinghischininhisshirt-collar.‘Sheistolerablyconvalescent.ThetwinsnolongerderivetheirsustenancefromNature’sfounts—inshort,’saidMr.

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