Дэвид Копперфильд

Good and Bad Angels

           Wickfield,’saidI,atlast,‘whoisworthfivehundredofyouorme’;formylife,Ithink,Icouldnothavehelpeddividingthatpartofthesentencewithanawkwardjerk;‘hasbeenimprudent,hashe,Mr.Heep?’

           ‘Oh,veryimprudentindeed,MasterCopperfield,’returnedUriah,sighingmodestly.‘Oh,verymuchso!ButIwishyou’dcallmeUriah,ifyouplease.It’slikeoldtimes.’

           ‘Well!Uriah,’saidI,boltingitoutwithsomedifficulty.

           ‘Thankyou,’hereturned,withfervour.‘Thankyou,MasterCopperfield!It’sliketheblowingofoldbreezesortheringingofoldbellsestohearYOUsayUriah.Ibegyourpardon.WasImakinganyobservation?’

           ‘AboutMr.Wickfield,’Isuggested.

           ‘Oh!Yes,truly,’saidUriah.‘Ah!Greatimprudence,MasterCopperfield.It’satopicthatIwouldn’ttouchupon,toanysoulbutyou.EventoyouIcanonlytouchuponit,andnomore.Ifanyoneelsehadbeeninmyplaceduringthelastfewyears,bythistimehewouldhavehadMr.Wickfield(oh,whataworthymanheis,MasterCopperfield,too!)underhisthumb.Underhisthumb,’saidUriah,veryslowly,ashestretchedouthiscruel-lookinghandabovemytable,andpressedhisownthumbuponit,untilitshook,andshooktheroom.

           IfIhadbeenobligedtolookathimwithhimsplayfootonMr.Wickfield’shead,IthinkIcouldscarcelyhavehatedhimmore.

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