Дэвид Копперфильд

I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession

           

           Ataboutmid-day,wesetoutfortheofficeofMessrsSpenlowandJorkins,inDoctors’Commons.Myaunt,whohadthisothergeneralopinioninreferencetoLondon,thateverymanshesawwasapickpocket,gavemeherpursetocarryforher,whichhadtenguineasinitandsomesilver.

           WemadeapauseatthetoyshopinFleetStreet,toseethegiantsofSaintDunstan’sstrikeuponthebellswehadtimedourgoing,soastocatchthematit,attwelveo’clockandthenwentontowardsLudgateHill,andSt.Paul’sChurchyard.Wewerecrossingtotheformerplace,whenIfoundthatmyauntgreatlyacceleratedherspeed,andlookedfrightened.Iobserved,atthesametime,thataloweringill-dressedmanwhohadstoppedandstaredatusinpassing,alittlebefore,wascomingsocloseafterusastobrushagainsther.

           ‘Trot!MydearTrot!’criedmyaunt,inaterrifiedwhisper,andpressingmyarm.‘Idon’tknowwhatIamtodo.’

           ‘Don’tbealarmed,’saidI.‘There’snothingtobeafraidof.Stepintoashop,andI’llsoongetridofthisfellow.’

           ‘No,no,child!’shereturned.‘Don’tspeaktohimfortheworld.Ientreat,Iorderyou!’

           ‘GoodHeaven,aunt!’saidI.‘Heisnothingbutasturdybeggar.’

           ‘Youdon’tknowwhatheis!’repliedmyaunt.

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