Дэвид Копперфильд

I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession

           ‘Youdon’tknowwhoheis!Youdon’tknowwhatyousay!’

           Wehadstoppedinanemptydoor-way,whilethiswaspassing,andhehadstoppedtoo.

           ‘Don’tlookathim!’saidmyaunt,asIturnedmyheadindignantly,‘butgetmeacoach,mydear,andwaitformeinSt.Paul’sChurchyard.’

           ‘Waitforyou?’Ireplied.

           ‘Yes,’rejoinedmyaunt.‘Imustgoalone.Imustgowithhim.’

           ‘Withhim,aunt?Thisman?’

           ‘Iaminmysenses,’shereplied,‘andItellyouImust.Getmeacoach!’

           HowevermuchastonishedImightbe,IwassensiblethatIhadnorighttorefusecompliancewithsuchaperemptorycommand.Ihurriedawayafewpaces,andcalledahackney-chariotwhichwaspassingempty.AlmostbeforeIcouldletdownthesteps,myauntsprangin,Idon’tknowhow,andthemanfollowed.Shewavedherhandtometogoaway,soearnestly,that,allconfoundedasIwas,Iturnedfromthematonce.Indoingso,Iheardhersaytothecoachman,‘Driveanywhere!Drivestraighton!’andpresentlythechariotpassedme,goingupthehill.

           WhatMr.Dickhadtoldme,andwhatIhadsupposedtobeadelusionofhis,nowcameintomymind.Icouldnotdoubtthatthispersonwasthepersonofwhomhehadmadesuchmysteriousmention,thoughwhatthenatureofhisholduponmyauntcouldpossiblybe,Iwasquiteunabletoimagine.

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