Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Micawber’s Gauntlet

           ‘Anescapadeofaweekorso.’

           ‘Andhowaretheyall?Ofcourse,littleEmilyisnotmarriedyet?’

           ‘Notyet.Goingtobe,Ibelieveinsomanyweeks,ormonths,orsomethingorother.Ihavenotseenmuchof‘em.Bytheby’;helaiddownhisknifeandfork,whichhehadbeenusingwithgreatdiligence,andbeganfeelinginhispockets;‘Ihavealetterforyou.’

           ‘Fromwhom?’

           ‘Why,fromyouroldnurse,’hereturned,takingsomepapersoutofhisbreastpocket.“‘J.Steerforth,Esquire,debtor,toTheWillingMind”;that’snotit.Patience,andwe’llfinditpresently.Oldwhat’s-his-name’sinabadway,andit’saboutthat,Ibelieve.’

           ‘Barkis,doyoumean?’

           ‘Yes!’stillfeelinginhispockets,andlookingovertheircontents:‘it’salloverwithpoorBarkis,Iamafraid.Isawalittleapothecarytheresurgeon,orwhateverheiswhobroughtyourworshipintotheworld.Hewasmightylearnedaboutthecase,tome;buttheupshotofhisopinionwas,thatthecarrierwasmakinghislastjourneyratherfast.Putyourhandintothebreastpocketofmygreat-coatonthechairyonder,andIthinkyou’llfindtheletter.Isitthere?’

           ‘Hereitis!’saidI.

           ‘That’sright!’

           ItwasfromPeggotty;somethinglesslegiblethanusual,andbrief.

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