Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           

           ‘TheRussianPrinceisaclientofyours,ishe?’saidSteerforth.

           ‘Ibelieveyou,mypet,’repliedMissMowcher.‘Ikeephisnailsinorderforhim.Twiceaweek!Fingersandtoes.’

           ‘Hepayswell,Ihope?’saidSteerforth.

           ‘Pays,ashespeaks,mydearchildthroughthenose,’repliedMissMowcher.‘NoneofyourcloseshaversthePrinceain’t.You’dsayso,ifyousawhismoustachios.Redbynature,blackbyart.’

           ‘Byyourart,ofcourse,’saidSteerforth.

           MissMowcherwinkedassent.‘Forcedtosendforme.Couldn’thelpit.Theclimateaffectedhisdye;itdidverywellinRussia,butitwasnogohere.YouneversawsucharustyPrinceinallyourborndaysashewas.Likeoldiron!’‘Isthatwhyyoucalledhimahumbug,justnow?’inquiredSteerforth.

           ‘Oh,you’reabrothofaboy,ain’tyou?’returnedMissMowcher,shakingherheadviolently.‘Isaid,whatasetofhumbugswewereingeneral,andIshowedyouthescrapsofthePrince’snailstoproveit.ThePrince’snailsdomoreformeinprivatefamiliesofthegenteelsort,thanallmytalentsputtogether.Ialwayscarry‘emabout.They’rethebestintroduction.IfMissMowchercutsthePrince’snails,shemustbeallright.Igive‘emawaytotheyoungladies.Theyput‘eminalbums,Ibelieve.

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