Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           Wouldyoubelievehetriedtodowithoutme—intheLife-Guards,too?’

           ‘Mad!’saidSteerforth.

           ‘Itlookslikeit.However,madorsane,hetried,’returnedMissMowcher.‘Whatdoeshedo,but,loandbeholdyou,hegoesintoaperfumer’sshop,andwantstobuyabottleoftheMadagascarLiquid.’

           ‘Charleydoes?’saidSteerforth.

           ‘Charleydoes.Buttheyhaven’tgotanyoftheMadagascarLiquid.’

           ‘Whatisit?Somethingtodrink?’askedSteerforth.

           ‘Todrink?’returnedMissMowcher,stoppingtoslaphischeek.‘Todoctorhisownmoustachioswith,youknow.Therewasawomanintheshop—elderlyfemale—quiteaGriffin—whohadneverevenheardofitbyname.“Beggingpardon,sir,”saidtheGriffintoCharley,“it’snot—not—notROUGE,isit?”“Rouge,”saidCharleytotheGriffin.“Whattheunmentionabletoearspolite,doyouthinkIwantwithrouge?”“Nooffence,sir,”saidtheGriffin;“wehaveitaskedforbysomanynames,Ithoughtitmightbe.”Nowthat,mychild,’continuedMissMowcher,rubbingallthetimeasbusilyasever,‘isanotherinstanceoftherefreshinghumbugIwasspeakingof.Idosomethinginthatwaymyselfperhapsagooddeal—perhapsalittle—sharp’stheword,mydearboy—nevermind!’

           ‘Inwhatwaydoyoumean?Intherougeway?’saidSteerforth.

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