Дэвид Копперфильд

Good and Bad Angels

           HenrySpiker’sbrother,Mr.Copperfield.’

           Imurmuredanassent,whichwasfulloffeeling,consideringthatIknewnothingatallabouthim;andIinquiredwhatMr.Traddleswasbyprofession.

           ‘Traddles,’returnedMr.Waterbrook,‘isayoungmanreadingforthebar.Yes.Heisquiteagoodfellownobody’senemybuthisown.’

           ‘Ishehisownenemy?’saidI,sorrytohearthis.

           ‘Well,’returnedMr.Waterbrook,pursinguphismouth,andplayingwithhiswatch-chain,inacomfortable,prosperoussortofway.‘Ishouldsayhewasoneofthosemenwhostandintheirownlight.Yes,Ishouldsayhewouldnever,forexample,beworthfivehundredpound.Traddleswasrecommendedtomebyaprofessionalfriend.Ohyes.Yes.Hehasakindoftalentfordrawingbriefs,andstatingacaseinwriting,plainly.IamabletothrowsomethinginTraddles’sway,inthecourseoftheyear;something-forhimconsiderable.Ohyes.Yes.’

           IwasmuchimpressedbytheextremelycomfortableandsatisfiedmannerinwhichMr.Waterbrookdeliveredhimselfofthislittleword‘Yes’,everynowandthen.Therewaswonderfulexpressioninit.Itcompletelyconveyedtheideaofamanwhohadbeenborn,nottosaywithasilverspoon,butwithascaling-ladder,andhadgoneonmountingalltheheightsoflifeoneafteranother,untilnowhelooked,fromthetopofthefortifications,withtheeyeofaphilosopherandapatron,onthepeopledowninthetrenches.

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