Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Micawber’s Gauntlet

           

           ‘Iwassosurprisedatfirst,’saidI,givinghimwelcomewithallthecordialityIfelt,‘thatIhadhardlybreathtogreetyouwith,Steerforth.’

           ‘Well,thesightofmeisgoodforsoreeyes,astheScotchsay,’repliedSteerforth,‘andsoisthesightofyou,Daisy,infullbloom.Howareyou,myBacchanal?’

           ‘Iamverywell,’saidI;‘andnotatallBacchanaliantonight,thoughIconfesstoanotherpartyofthree.’

           ‘AllofwhomImetinthestreet,talkingloudinyourpraise,’returnedSteerforth.‘Who’sourfriendinthetights?’

           IgavehimthebestideaIcould,inafewwords,ofMr.Micawber.Helaughedheartilyatmyfeebleportraitofthatgentleman,andsaidhewasamantoknow,andhemustknowhim.‘Butwhodoyousupposeourotherfriendis?’saidI,inmyturn.

           ‘Heavenknows,’saidSteerforth.‘Notabore,Ihope?Ithoughthelookedalittlelikeone.’

           ‘Traddles!’Ireplied,triumphantly.

           ‘Who’she?’askedSteerforth,inhiscarelessway.

           ‘Don’tyourememberTraddles?TraddlesinourroomatSalemHouse?’

           ‘Oh!Thatfellow!’saidSteerforth,beatingalumpofcoalonthetopofthefire,withthepoker.‘Isheassoftasever?Andwherethedeucedidyoupickhimup?’

           IextolledTraddlesinreply,ashighlyasIcould;forIfeltthatSteerforthratherslightedhim.

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