Дэвид Копперфильд

Tommy Traddles

           Now,Copperfield,youaresoexactlywhatyouusedtobe,withthatagreeableface,andit’ssopleasanttoseeyou,thatIsha’n’tconcealanything.ThereforeyoumustknowthatIamengaged.’

           Engaged!Oh,Dora!

           ‘Sheisacurate’sdaughter,’saidTraddles;‘oneoften,downinDevonshire.Yes!’Forhesawmeglance,involuntarily,attheprospectontheinkstand.‘That’sthechurch!Youcomeroundheretotheleft,outofthisgate,’tracinghisfingeralongtheinkstand,‘andexactlywhereIholdthispen,therestandsthehousefacing,youunderstand,towardsthechurch.’

           Thedelightwithwhichheenteredintotheseparticulars,didnotfullypresentitselftomeuntilafterwards;formyselfishthoughtsweremakingaground-planofMr.Spenlow’shouseandgardenatthesamemoment.

           ‘Sheissuchadeargirl!’saidTraddles;‘alittleolderthanme,butthedearestgirl!ItoldyouIwasgoingoutoftown?Ihavebeendownthere.Iwalkedthere,andIwalkedback,andIhadthemostdelightfultime!Idaresayoursislikelytobearatherlongengagement,butourmottois“Waitandhope!”Wealwayssaythat.“Waitandhope,”wealwayssay.Andshewouldwait,Copperfield,tillshewassixtyanyageyoucanmentionforme!’

           Traddlesrosefromhischair,and,withatriumphantsmile,puthishanduponthewhiteclothIhadobserved.

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