Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           

           Herehisrighthandcameslowlyandfeeblyfromunderthebedclothes,andwithapurposelessuncertaingrasptookholdofastickwhichwaslooselytiedtothesideofthebed.Aftersomepokingaboutwiththisinstrument,inthecourseofwhichhisfaceassumedavarietyofdistractedexpressions,Mr.Barkispokeditagainstabox,anendofwhichhadbeenvisibletomeallthetime.Thenhisfacebecamecomposed.

           ‘Oldclothes,’saidMr.Barkis.

           ‘Oh!’saidI.

           ‘IwishitwasMoney,sir,’saidMr.Barkis.

           ‘Iwishitwas,indeed,’saidI.

           ‘ButitAIN’T,’saidMr.Barkis,openingbothhiseyesaswideashepossiblycould.

           Iexpressedmyselfquitesureofthat,andMr.Barkis,turninghiseyesmoregentlytohiswife,said:

           ‘She’stheusefullestandbestofwomen,C.P.Barkis.AllthepraisethatanyonecangivetoC.P.Barkis,shedeserves,andmore!Mydear,you’llgetadinnertoday,forcompany;somethinggoodtoeatanddrink,willyou?’

           Ishouldhaveprotestedagainstthisunnecessarydemonstrationinmyhonour,butthatIsawPeggotty,ontheoppositesideofthebed,extremelyanxiousIshouldnot.SoIheldmypeace.

           ‘Ihavegotatrifleofmoneysomewhereaboutme,mydear,’saidMr.Barkis,‘butI’malittletired.IfyouandMr.Davidwillleavemeforashortnap,I’lltryandfinditwhenIwake.

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