Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Captivity

           Whowantsaprotector?IamsureIdon’twantaprotector.JipcanprotectmeagreatdealbetterthanMissMurdstone,—can’tyou,Jip,dear?’

           Heonlywinkedlazily,whenshekissedhisballofahead.

           ‘Papacallshermyconfidentialfriend,butIamsuresheisnosuchthing—isshe,Jip?Wearenotgoingtoconfideinanysuchcrosspeople,JipandI.Wemeantobestowourconfidencewherewelike,andtofindoutourownfriends,insteadofhavingthemfoundoutforus—don’twe,Jip?’

           Jipmadeacomfortablenoise,inanswer,alittlelikeatea-kettlewhenitsings.Asforme,everywordwasanewheapoffetters,rivetedabovethelast.

           ‘Itisveryhard,becausewehavenotakindMama,thatwearetohave,instead,asulky,gloomyoldthinglikeMissMurdstone,alwaysfollowingusabout—isn’tit,Jip?Nevermind,Jip.Wewon’tbeconfidential,andwe’llmakeourselvesashappyaswecaninspiteofher,andwe’llteaseher,andnotpleaseher—won’twe,Jip?’

           Ifithadlastedanylonger,IthinkImusthavegonedownonmykneesonthegravel,withtheprobabilitybeforemeofgrazingthem,andofbeingpresentlyejectedfromthepremisesbesides.But,bygoodfortunethegreenhousewasnotfaroff,andthesewordsbroughtustoit.

           Itcontainedquiteashowofbeautifulgeraniums.

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