Дэвид Копперфильд

Steerforth’s Home

           Steerforthobserved,moreinjestthanearnest,thatshefearedhersonledbutawildlifeatcollege,MissDartleputinthus:

           ‘Oh,really?YouknowhowignorantIam,andthatIonlyaskforinformation,butisn’titalwaysso?Ithoughtthatkindoflifewasonallhandsunderstoodtobe—eh?’‘Itiseducationforaverygraveprofession,ifyoumeanthat,Rosa,’Mrs.Steerforthansweredwithsomecoldness.

           ‘Oh!Yes!That’sverytrue,’returnedMissDartle.‘Butisn’tit,though?—Iwanttobeputright,ifIamwrongisn’tit,really?’

           ‘Reallywhat?’saidMrs.Steerforth.

           ‘Oh!Youmeanit’snot!’returnedMissDartle.‘Well,I’mverygladtohearit!Now,Iknowwhattodo!That’stheadvantageofasking.Ishallneverallowpeopletotalkbeforemeaboutwastefulnessandprofligacy,andsoforth,inconnexionwiththatlife,anymore.’

           ‘Andyouwillberight,’saidMrs.Steerforth.‘Myson’stutorisaconscientiousgentleman;andifIhadnotimplicitrelianceonmyson,Ishouldhaverelianceonhim.’

           ‘Shouldyou?’saidMissDartle.‘Dearme!Conscientious,ishe?Reallyconscientious,now?’

           ‘Yes,Iamconvincedofit,’saidMrs.Steerforth.

           ‘Howverynice!’exclaimedMissDartle.‘Whatacomfort!Reallyconscientious?Thenhe’snot—butofcoursehecan’tbe,ifhe’sreallyconscientious.

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