Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           Therewasaprettywomanatthebackoftheshop,dancingalittlechildinherarms,whileanotherlittlefellowclungtoherapron.IhadnodifficultyinrecognizingeitherMinnieorMinnie’schildren.Theglassdooroftheparlourwasnotopen;butintheworkshopacrosstheyardIcouldfaintlyheartheoldtuneplaying,asifithadneverleftoff.

           ‘IsMr.Omerathome?’saidI,entering.‘Ishouldliketoseehim,foramoment,ifheis.’

           ‘Ohyes,sir,heisathome,’saidMinnie;‘theweatherdon’tsuithisasthmaoutofdoors.Joe,callyourgrandfather!’

           Thelittlefellow,whowasholdingherapron,gavesuchalustyshout,thatthesoundofitmadehimbashful,andheburiedhisfaceinherskirts,tohergreatadmiration.Iheardaheavypuffingandblowingcomingtowardsus,andsoonMr.Omer,shorter-windedthanofyore,butnotmucholder-looking,stoodbeforeme.

           ‘Servant,sir,’saidMr.Omer.‘WhatcanIdoforyou,sir?’‘Youcanshakehandswithme,Mr.Omer,ifyouplease,’saidI,puttingoutmyown.‘Youwereverygood-naturedtomeonce,whenIamafraidIdidn’tshowthatIthoughtso.’

           ‘WasIthough?’returnedtheoldman.‘I’mgladtohearit,butIdon’trememberwhen.Areyousureitwasme?’

           ‘Quite.’

           ‘Ithinkmymemoryhasgotasshortasmybreath,’saidMr.Omer,lookingatmeandshakinghishead;‘forIdon’trememberyou.

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