Дэвид Копперфильд

Little Em’ly

           Peggottyruffledhishairagain,withbothhands,asafurtherpreparationforwhathewasgoingtosay,andwenton,withahanduponeachofhisknees:

           ‘Therewasacertainpersonashadknow’dourEm’ly,fromthetimewhenherfatherwasdrownded;ashadseenherconstant;whenababby,whenayounggal,whenawoman.Notmuchofapersontolookat,hewarn’t,’saidMr.Peggotty,‘somethingo’myownbuild-roughagooddealo’thesou’-westerinhimwerysaltbut,onthewhole,ahonestsortofachap,withhisartintherightplace.’

           IthoughtIhadneverseenHamgrintoanythingliketheextenttowhichhesatgrinningatusnow.

           ‘Whatdoesthishereblessedtarpaulingoanddo,’saidMr.Peggotty,withhisfaceonehighnoonofenjoyment,‘buthelosesthatthereartofhistoourlittleEm’ly.Hefollersherabout,hemakeshisselfasorto’servanttoher,helosesinagreatmeasurehisrelishforhiswittles,andinthelong-runhemakesitcleartomewot’samiss.NowIcouldwishmyself,yousee,thatourlittleEm’lywasinafairwayofbeingmarried.Icouldwishtoseeher,atallewents,underarticlestoahonestmanashadarighttodefendher.

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