Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Micawber’s Gauntlet

           

           ‘Ibegyourpardon,sir,Iwasdirectedtocomein.Ismymasternothere,sir?’

           ‘No.’

           ‘Haveyounotseenhim,sir?’

           ‘No;don’tyoucomefromhim?’

           ‘Notimmediatelyso,sir.’

           ‘Didhetellyouyouwouldfindhimhere?’

           ‘Notexactlyso,sir.ButIshouldthinkhemightbeheretomorrow,ashehasnotbeenheretoday.’‘IshecomingupfromOxford?’

           ‘Ibeg,sir,’hereturnedrespectfully,‘thatyouwillbeseated,andallowmetodothis.’Withwhichhetooktheforkfrommyunresistinghand,andbentoverthegridiron,asifhiswholeattentionwereconcentratedonit.

           Weshouldnothavebeenmuchdiscomposed,Idaresay,bytheappearanceofSteerforthhimself,butwebecameinamomentthemeekestofthemeekbeforehisrespectableserving-man.Mr.Micawber,hummingatune,toshowthathewasquiteatease,subsidedintohischair,withthehandleofahastilyconcealedforkstickingoutofthebosomofhiscoat,asifhehadstabbedhimself.Mrs.Micawberputonherbrowngloves,andassumedagenteellanguor.Traddlesranhisgreasyhandsthroughhishair,andstooditboltupright,andstaredinconfusiononthetable-cloth.Asforme,Iwasamereinfantattheheadofmyowntable;andhardlyventuredtoglanceattherespectablephenomenon,whohadcomefromHeavenknowswhere,toputmyestablishmenttorights.

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