Дэвид Копперфильд

Tommy Traddles

           Idon’tmakemuch,butIdon’tspendmuch.Ingeneral,Iboardwiththepeopledownstairs,whoareveryagreeablepeopleindeed.BothMr.andMrs.Micawberhaveseenagooddealoflife,andareexcellentcompany.’

           ‘MydearTraddles!’Iquicklyexclaimed.‘Whatareyoutalkingabout?’

           Traddleslookedatme,asifhewonderedwhatIwastalkingabout.

           ‘Mr.andMrs.Micawber!’Irepeated.‘Why,Iamintimatelyacquaintedwiththem!’

           Anopportunedoubleknockatthedoor,whichIknewwellfromoldexperienceinWindsorTerrace,andwhichnobodybutMr.Micawbercouldeverhaveknockedatthatdoor,resolvedanydoubtinmymindastotheirbeingmyoldfriends.IbeggedTraddlestoaskhislandlordtowalkup.Traddlesaccordinglydidso,overthebanister;andMr.Micawber,notabitchangedhistights,hisstick,hisshirt-collar,andhiseye-glass,allthesameasevercameintotheroomwithagenteelandyouthfulair.

           ‘Ibegyourpardon,Mr.Traddles,’saidMr.Micawber,withtheoldrollinhisvoice,ashecheckedhimselfinhummingasofttune.‘Iwasnotawarethattherewasanyindividual,alientothistenement,inyoursanctum.’

           Mr.Micawberslightlybowedtome,andpulleduphisshirt-collar.

           ‘Howdoyoudo,Mr.Micawber?’saidI.

           ‘Sir,’saidMr.Micawber,‘youareexceedinglyobliging.Iaminstatuquo.’

           ‘AndMrs.Micawber?’Ipursued.

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