Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           

           ThiswasaninvocationtoSteerforthtoplacehimselfunderherhands;who,accordingly,sathimselfdown,withhisbacktothetable,andhislaughingfacetowardsme,andsubmittedhisheadtoherinspection,evidentlyfornootherpurposethanourentertainment.ToseeMissMowcherstandingoverhim,lookingathisrichprofusionofbrownhairthroughalargeroundmagnifyingglass,whichshetookoutofherpocket,wasamostamazingspectacle.

           ‘You’reaprettyfellow!’saidMissMowcher,afterabriefinspection.‘You’dbeasbaldasafriaronthetopofyourheadintwelvemonths,butforme.justhalfaminute,myyoungfriend,andwe’llgiveyouapolishingthatshallkeepyourcurlsonforthenexttenyears!’

           Withthis,shetiltedsomeofthecontentsofthelittlebottleontooneofthelittlebitsofflannel,and,againimpartingsomeofthevirtuesofthatpreparationtooneofthelittlebrushes,beganrubbingandscrapingawaywithbothonthecrownofSteerforth’sheadinthebusiestmannerIeverwitnessed,talkingallthetime.

           ‘There’sCharleyPyegrave,theduke’sson,’shesaid.‘YouknowCharley?’peepingroundintohisface.

           ‘Alittle,’saidSteerforth.

           ‘WhatamanHEis!THERE’Sawhisker!AstoCharley’slegs,iftheywereonlyapair(whichtheyain’t),they’ddefycompetition.

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