Дэвид Копперфильд

I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession

           

           ‘Andasweetsettheyisforsich!’saidMrs.Crupp.

           Sowewentupstairs.

           Theywereonthetopofthehouseagreatpointwithmyaunt,beingnearthefire-escapeandconsistedofalittlehalf-blindentrywhereyoucouldseehardlyanything,alittlestone-blindpantrywhereyoucouldseenothingatall,asitting-room,andabedroom.Thefurniturewasratherfaded,butquitegoodenoughforme;and,sureenough,theriverwasoutsidethewindows.

           AsIwasdelightedwiththeplace,myauntandMrs.Cruppwithdrewintothepantrytodiscusstheterms,whileIremainedonthesitting-roomsofa,hardlydaringtothinkitpossiblethatIcouldbedestinedtoliveinsuchanobleresidence.Afterasinglecombatofsomedurationtheyreturned,andIsaw,tomyjoy,bothinMrs.Crupp’scountenanceandinmyaunt’s,thatthedeedwasdone.

           ‘Isitthelastoccupant’sfurniture?’inquiredmyaunt.

           ‘Yes,itis,ma’am,’saidMrs.Crupp.

           ‘What’sbecomeofhim?’askedmyaunt.

           Mrs.Cruppwastakenwithatroublesomecough,inthemidstofwhichshearticulatedwithmuchdifficulty.‘Hewastookillhere,ma’am,andugh!ugh!ugh!dearme!andhedied!’

           ‘Hey!Whatdidhedieof?’askedmyaunt.

           ‘Well,ma’am,hediedofdrink,’saidMrs.Crupp,inconfidence.‘Andsmoke.’

           ‘Smoke?Youdon’tmeanchimneys?’saidmyaunt.

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