Дэвид Копперфильд

I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession

           Myauntcriedoutrightassheembracedme;andsaid,pretendingtolaugh,thatifmypoormotherhadbeenalive,thatsillylittlecreaturewouldhaveshedtears,shehadnodoubt.

           ‘SoyouhaveleftMr.Dickbehind,aunt?’saidI.‘Iamsorryforthat.Ah,Janet,howdoyoudo?’

           AsJanetcurtsied,hopingIwaswell,Iobservedmyaunt’svisagelengthenverymuch.

           ‘Iamsorryforit,too,’saidmyaunt,rubbinghernose.‘Ihavehadnopeaceofmind,Trot,sinceIhavebeenhere.’BeforeIcouldaskwhy,shetoldme.

           ‘Iamconvinced,’saidmyaunt,layingherhandwithmelancholyfirmnessonthetable,‘thatDick’scharacterisnotacharactertokeepthedonkeysoff.Iamconfidenthewantsstrengthofpurpose.IoughttohaveleftJanetathome,instead,andthenmymindmightperhapshavebeenatease.Ifevertherewasadonkeytrespassingonmygreen,’saidmyaunt,withemphasis,‘therewasonethisafternoonatfouro’clock.Acoldfeelingcameovermefromheadtofoot,andIknowitwasadonkey!’

           Itriedtocomfortheronthispoint,butsherejectedconsolation.

           ‘Itwasadonkey,’saidmyaunt;‘anditwastheonewiththestumpytailwhichthatMurderingsisterofawomanrode,whenshecametomyhouse.’Thishadbeen,eversince,theonlynamemyauntknewforMissMurdstone.

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