Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           

           ‘Putthisandthattogether,mytenderpupil,’returnedthewaryMowcher,touchinghernose,‘workitbytheruleofSecretsinalltrades,andtheproductwillgiveyouthedesiredresult.IsayIdoalittleinthatwaymyself.OneDowager,SHEcallsitlip-salve.Another,SHEcallsitgloves.Another,SHEcallsittucker-edging.Another,SHEcallsitafan.IcallitwhateverTHEYcallit.Isupplyitfor‘em,butwekeepupthetrickso,tooneanother,andmakebelievewithsuchaface,thatthey’dassoonthinkoflayingiton,beforeawholedrawing-room,asbeforeme.AndwhenIwaitupon‘em,they’llsaytomesometimesWITHITON-thick,andnomistake“HowamIlooking,Mowcher?AmIpale?”Ha!ha!ha!ha!Isn’tTHATrefreshing,myyoungfriend!’

           IneverdidinmydaysbeholdanythinglikeMowcherasshestooduponthediningtable,intenselyenjoyingthisrefreshment,rubbingbusilyatSteerforth’shead,andwinkingatmeoverit.

           ‘Ah!’shesaid.‘Suchthingsarenotmuchindemandhereabouts.Thatsetsmeoffagain!Ihaven’tseenaprettywomansinceI’vebeenhere,jemmy.’

           ‘No?’saidSteerforth.

           ‘Nottheghostofone,’repliedMissMowcher.

           ‘Wecouldshowherthesubstanceofone,Ithink?’saidSteerforth,addressinghiseyestomine.‘Eh,Daisy?’

           ‘Yes,indeed,’saidI.

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