Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           

           ‘Aha?’criedthelittlecreature,glancingsharplyatmyface,andthenpeepingroundatSteerforth’s.‘Umph?’

           Thefirstexclamationsoundedlikeaquestionputtobothofus,andthesecondlikeaquestionputtoSteerforthonly.Sheseemedtohavefoundnoanswertoeither,butcontinuedtorub,withherheadononesideandhereyeturnedup,asifshewerelookingforananswerintheairandwereconfidentofitsappearingpresently.

           ‘Asisterofyours,Mr.Copperfield?’shecried,afterapause,andstillkeepingthesamelook-out.‘Aye,aye?’

           ‘No,’saidSteerforth,beforeIcouldreply.‘Nothingofthesort.Onthecontrary,Mr.CopperfieldusedorIammuchmistakentohaveagreatadmirationforher.’

           ‘Why,hasn’thenow?’returnedMissMowcher.‘Ishefickle?Oh,forshame!Didhesipeveryflower,andchangeeveryhour,untilPollyhispassionrequited?IshernamePolly?’

           TheElfinsuddennesswithwhichshepounceduponmewiththisquestion,andasearchinglook,quitedisconcertedmeforamoment.

           ‘No,MissMowcher,’Ireplied.‘HernameisEmily.’

           ‘Aha?’shecriedexactlyasbefore.‘Umph?WhatarattleIam!Mr.Copperfield,ain’tIvolatile?’

           Hertoneandlookimpliedsomethingthatwasnotagreeabletomeinconnexionwiththesubject.

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