Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           Isthatlongenough?’

           Ianswered,laughing,thatIthoughtwemightgetthroughitinthattime,butthathemustcomealso;forhewouldfindthathisrenownhadprecededhim,andthathewasalmostasgreatapersonageasIwas.

           ‘I’llcomeanywhereyoulike,’saidSteerforth,‘ordoanythingyoulike.Tellmewheretocometo;andintwohoursI’llproducemyselfinanystateyouplease,sentimentalorcomical.’

           IgavehimminutedirectionsforfindingtheresidenceofMr.Barkis,carriertoBlunderstoneandelsewhere;and,onthisunderstanding,wentoutalone.Therewasasharpbracingair;thegroundwasdry;theseawascrispandclear;thesunwasdiffusingabundanceoflight,ifnotmuchwarmth;andeverythingwasfreshandlively.Iwassofreshandlivelymyself,inthepleasureofbeingthere,thatIcouldhavestoppedthepeopleinthestreetsandshakenhandswiththem.

           Thestreetslookedsmall,ofcourse.Thestreetsthatwehaveonlyseenaschildrenalwaysdo,Ibelieve,whenwegobacktothem.ButIhadforgottennothinginthem,andfoundnothingchanged,untilIcametoMr.Omer’sshop.OMERAndJoramwasnowwrittenup,whereOMERusedtobe;buttheinscription,DRAPER,TAILOR,HABERDASHER,FUNERALFURNISHER,&c.,remainedasitwas.

           Myfootstepsseemedtotendsonaturallytotheshopdoor,afterIhadreadthesewordsfromovertheway,thatIwentacrosstheroadandlookedin.

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