Дэвид Копперфильд

Somebody Turns up

           TherehavebeentimeswhenIhaveadministeredasuccessionoffacerstothem;therehavebeentimeswhentheyhavebeentoomanyforme,andIhavegivenin,andsaidtoMrs.Micawber,inthewordsofCato,“Plato,thoureasonestwell.It’sallupnow.Icanshowfightnomore.”Butatnotimeofmylife,’saidMr.Micawber,‘haveIenjoyedahigherdegreeofsatisfactionthaninpouringmygriefs(ifImaydescribedifficulties,chieflyarisingoutofwarrantsofattorneyandpromissorynotesattwoandfourmonths,bythatword)intothebosomofmyfriendCopperfield.’

           Mr.Micawberclosedthishandsometributebysaying,‘Mr.Heep!Goodevening.Mrs.Heep!Yourservant,’andthenwalkingoutwithmeinhismostfashionablemanner,makingagooddealofnoiseonthepavementwithhisshoes,andhummingatuneaswewent.

           ItwasalittleinnwhereMr.Micawberputup,andheoccupiedalittleroominit,partitionedofffromthecommercialroom,andstronglyflavouredwithtobacco-smoke.Ithinkitwasoverthekitchen,becauseawarmgreasysmellappearedtocomeupthroughthechinksinthefloor,andtherewasaflabbyperspirationonthewalls.Iknowitwasnearthebar,onaccountofthesmellofspiritsandjinglingofglasses.Here,recumbentonasmallsofa,underneathapictureofarace-horse,withherheadclosetothefire,andherfeetpushingthemustardoffthedumb-waiterattheotherendoftheroom,wasMrs.Micawber,towhomMr.

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