Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           Talkingofhandkerchers—andtalkingofladies—whatacomfortyouaretoyourblessedmother,ain’tyou,mydearboy,overoneofmyshoulders,andIdon’tsaywhich!’

           MissMowcheruntiedherbonnet,atthispassageofherdiscourse,threwbackthestrings,andsatdown,panting,onafootstoolinfrontofthefire—makingakindofarbourofthediningtable,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’slastweek—THERE’Sawoman!HowSHEwears!—andMithershimselfcameintotheroomwhereIwaswaitingforher—THERE’Saman!HowHEwears!andhiswigtoo,forhe’shaditthesetenyears—andhewentonatthatrateinthecomplimentaryline,thatIbegantothinkIshouldbeobligedtoringthebell.Ha!ha!ha!He’sapleasantwretch,buthewantsprinciple.

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