Дэвид Копперфильд

I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession

           Spenlowconductedmethroughapavedcourtyardformedofgravebrickhouses,whichIinferred,fromtheDoctors’namesuponthedoors,tobetheofficialabiding-placesofthelearnedadvocatesofwhomSteerforthhadtoldme;andintoalargedullroom,notunlikeachapeltomythinking,onthelefthand.Theupperpartofthisroomwasfencedofffromtherest;andthere,onthetwosidesofaraisedplatformofthehorse-shoeform,sittingoneasyold-fashioneddining-roomchairs,weresundrygentlemeninredgownsandgreywigs,whomIfoundtobetheDoctorsaforesaid.Blinkingoveralittledesklikeapulpit-desk,inthecurveofthehorse-shoe,wasanoldgentleman,whom,ifIhadseenhiminanaviary,Ishouldcertainlyhavetakenforanowl,butwho,Ilearned,wasthepresidingjudge.Inthespacewithinthehorse-shoe,lowerthanthese,thatistosay,onaboutthelevelofthefloor,weresundryothergentlemen,ofMr.Spenlow’srank,anddressedlikehiminblackgownswithwhitefuruponthem,sittingatalonggreentable.Theircravatswereingeneralstiff,Ithought,andtheirlookshaughty;butinthislastrespectIpresentlyconceivedIhaddonethemaninjustice,forwhentwoorthreeofthemhadtoriseandansweraquestionofthepresidingdignitary,Ineversawanythingmoresheepish.Thepublic,representedbyaboywithacomforter,andashabby-genteelmansecretlyeatingcrumbsoutofhiscoatpockets,waswarmingitselfatastoveinthecentreoftheCourt.

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