Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           

           ‘WhatwereyoudoingforLadyMithers?’askedSteerforth.

           ‘That’stellings,myblessedinfant,’sheretorted,tappinghernoseagain,screwingupherface,andtwinklinghereyeslikeanimpofsupernaturalintelligence.‘NeverYOUmind!You’dliketoknowwhetherIstopherhairfromfallingoff,ordyeit,ortouchuphercomplexion,orimprovehereyebrows,wouldn’tyou?Andsoyoushall,mydarlingwhenItellyou!Doyouknowwhatmygreatgrandfather’snamewas?’

           ‘No,’saidSteerforth.

           ‘ItwasWalker,mysweetpet,’repliedMissMowcher,‘andhecameofalonglineofWalkers,thatIinheritalltheHookeyestatesfrom.’

           IneverbeheldanythingapproachingtoMissMowcher’swinkexceptMissMowcher’sself-possession.Shehadawonderfulwaytoo,whenlisteningtowhatwassaidtoher,orwhenwaitingforananswertowhatshehadsaidherself,ofpausingwithherheadcunninglyononeside,andoneeyeturneduplikeamagpie’s.AltogetherIwaslostinamazement,andsatstaringather,quiteoblivious,Iamafraid,ofthelawsofpoliteness.

           Shehadbythistimedrawnthechairtoherside,andwasbusilyengagedinproducingfromthebag(plunginginhershortarmtotheshoulder,ateverydive)anumberofsmallbottles,sponges,combs,brushes,bitsofflannel,littlepairsofcurling-irons,andotherinstruments,whichshetumbledinaheapuponthechair.

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