Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           Talkingofhandkerchersandtalkingofladieswhatacomfortyouaretoyourblessedmother,ain’tyou,mydearboy,overoneofmyshoulders,andIdon’tsaywhich!’

           MissMowcheruntiedherbonnet,atthispassageofherdiscourse,threwbackthestrings,andsatdown,panting,onafootstoolinfrontofthefiremakingakindofarbourofthediningtable,whichspreaditsmahoganyshelteraboveherhead.

           ‘Ohmystarsandwhat’s-their-names!’shewenton,clappingahandoneachofherlittleknees,andglancingshrewdlyatme,‘I’moftoofullahabit,that’sthefact,Steerforth.Afteraflightofstairs,itgivesmeasmuchtroubletodraweverybreathIwant,asifitwasabucketofwater.Ifyousawmelookingoutofanupperwindow,you’dthinkIwasafinewoman,wouldn’tyou?’

           ‘Ishouldthinkthat,whereverIsawyou,’repliedSteerforth.

           ‘Goalong,youdog,do!’criedthelittlecreature,makingawhiskathimwiththehandkerchiefwithwhichshewaswipingherface,‘anddon’tbeimpudent!ButIgiveyoumywordandhonourIwasatLadyMithers’slastweekTHERE’Sawoman!HowSHEwears!andMithershimselfcameintotheroomwhereIwaswaitingforherTHERE’Saman!HowHEwears!andhiswigtoo,forhe’shaditthesetenyearsandhewentonatthatrateinthecomplimentaryline,thatIbegantothinkIshouldbeobligedtoringthebell.Ha!ha!ha!He’sapleasantwretch,buthewantsprinciple.

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