Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           

           HegavesuchastartwhenIputmyhanduponhisshoulder,thathemademestarttoo.

           ‘Youcomeuponme,’hesaid,almostangrily,‘likeareproachfulghost!’

           ‘Iwasobligedtoannouncemyself,somehow,’Ireplied.‘HaveIcalledyoudownfromthestars?’

           ‘No,’heanswered.‘No.’

           ‘Upfromanywhere,then?’saidI,takingmyseatnearhim.

           ‘Iwaslookingatthepicturesinthefire,’hereturned.

           ‘Butyouarespoilingthemforme,’saidI,ashestirreditquicklywithapieceofburningwood,strikingoutofitatrainofred-hotsparksthatwentcareeringupthelittlechimney,androaringoutintotheair.

           ‘Youwouldnothaveseenthem,’hereturned.‘Idetestthismongreltime,neitherdaynornight.Howlateyouare!Wherehaveyoubeen?’

           ‘Ihavebeentakingleaveofmyusualwalk,’saidI.

           ‘AndIhavebeensittinghere,’saidSteerforth,glancingroundtheroom,‘thinkingthatallthepeoplewefoundsogladonthenightofourcomingdown,mighttojudgefromthepresentwastedairoftheplacebedispersed,ordead,orcometoIdon’tknowwhatharm.David,IwishtoGodIhadhadajudiciousfathertheselasttwentyyears!’

           ‘MydearSteerforth,whatisthematter?’

           ‘IwishwithallmysoulIhadbeenbetterguided!’heexclaimed.

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