Дэвид Копперфильд

Good and Bad Angels

           Thesewerefewenough,tobesure;butaswealwaysfellbackuponBlood,shehadaswideafieldforabstractspeculationashernephewhimself.

           WemighthavebeenapartyofOgres,theconversationassumedsuchasanguinecomplexion.

           ‘IconfessIamofMrs.Waterbrook’sopinion,’saidMr.Waterbrook,withhiswine-glassathiseye.‘Otherthingsareallverywellintheirway,butgivemeBlood!’

           ‘Oh!Thereisnothing,’observedHamlet’saunt,‘sosatisfactorytoone!Thereisnothingthatissomuchone’sbeau-idealofofallthatsortofthing,speakinggenerally.Therearesomelowminds(notmany,Iamhappytobelieve,buttherearesome)thatwouldprefertodowhatIshouldcallbowdownbeforeidols.PositivelyIdols!Beforeservice,intellect,andsoon.Buttheseareintangiblepoints.Bloodisnotso.WeseeBloodinanose,andweknowit.Wemeetwithitinachin,andwesay,“Thereitis!That’sBlood!”Itisanactualmatteroffact.Wepointitout.Itadmitsofnodoubt.’

           Thesimperingfellowwiththeweaklegs,whohadtakenAgnesdown,statedthequestionmoredecisivelyyet,Ithought.

           ‘Oh,youknow,deucetakeit,’saidthisgentleman,lookingroundtheboardwithanimbecilesmile,‘wecan’tforegoBlood,youknow.WemusthaveBlood,youknow.

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