Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Captivity

           

           ‘Oh!Ihopeyou’llgosoon!Youwouldlikeitsomuch!’

           Tracesofdeep-seatedanguishappearedinmycountenance.ThatsheshouldhopeIwouldgo,thatsheshouldthinkitpossibleIcouldgo,wasinsupportable.IdepreciatedParis;IdepreciatedFrance.IsaidIwouldn’tleaveEngland,underexistingcircumstances,foranyearthlyconsideration.Nothingshouldinduceme.Inshort,shewasshakingthecurlsagain,whenthelittledogcamerunningalongthewalktoourrelief.

           Hewasmortallyjealousofme,andpersistedinbarkingatme.Shetookhimupinherarmsohmygoodness!andcaressedhim,buthepersisteduponbarkingstill.Hewouldn’tletmetouchhim,whenItried;andthenshebeathim.Itincreasedmysufferingsgreatlytoseethepatsshegavehimforpunishmentonthebridgeofhisbluntnose,whilehewinkedhiseyes,andlickedherhand,andstillgrowledwithinhimselflikealittledouble-bass.Atlengthhewasquietwellhemightbewithherdimpledchinuponhishead!andwewalkedawaytolookatagreenhouse.

           ‘YouarenotveryintimatewithMissMurdstone,areyou?’saidDora.‘Mypet.’

           (Thetwolastwordsweretothedog.Oh,iftheyhadonlybeentome!)

           ‘No,’Ireplied.‘Notatallso.’

           ‘Sheisatiresomecreature,’saidDora,pouting.‘Ican’tthinkwhatpapacanhavebeenabout,whenhechosesuchavexatiousthingtobemycompanion.

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