Дэвид Копперфильд

I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession

           

           ‘Now,mydearaunt,’saidI,drawingmychairnearer,‘Iamuneasyinmymindaboutthat.It’salargesumofmoney.Youhaveexpendedagreatdealonmyeducation,andhavealwaysbeenasliberaltomeinallthingsasitwaspossibletobe.Youhavebeenthesoulofgenerosity.SurelytherearesomewaysinwhichImightbeginlifewithhardlyanyoutlay,andyetbeginwithagoodhopeofgettingonbyresolutionandexertion.Areyousurethatitwouldnotbebettertotrythatcourse?Areyoucertainthatyoucanaffordtopartwithsomuchmoney,andthatitisrightthatitshouldbesoexpended?Ionlyaskyou,mysecondmother,toconsider.Areyoucertain?’

           Myauntfinishedeatingthepieceoftoastonwhichshewasthenengaged,lookingmefullinthefaceallthewhile;andthensettingherglassonthechimney-piece,andfoldingherhandsuponherfoldedskirts,repliedasfollows:

           ‘Trot,mychild,ifIhaveanyobjectinlife,itistoprovideforyourbeingagood,asensible,andahappyman.Iambentuponit-soisDick.IshouldlikesomepeoplethatIknowtohearDick’sconversationonthesubject.Itssagacityiswonderful.Butnooneknowstheresourcesofthatman’sintellect,exceptmyself!’

           Shestoppedforamomenttotakemyhandbetweenhers,andwenton:

           ‘It’sinvain,Trot,torecallthepast,unlessitworkssomeinfluenceuponthepresent.PerhapsImighthavebeenbetterfriendswithyourpoorfather.

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