Дэвид Копперфильд

A Loss

           Ifshelikestomakeanylittlearrangement,afterwards,inthewayofdoinganylittlethingforusathome,verywell.Ifshedon’t,verywellstill.We’renolosers,anyhow.”Fordon’tyousee,’saidMr.Omer,touchingmewithhispipe,‘itain’tlikelythatamansoshortofbreathasmyself,andagrandfathertoo,wouldgoandstrainpointswithalittlebitofablue-eyedblossom,likeher?’

           ‘Notatall,Iamcertain,’saidI.

           ‘Notatall!You’reright!’saidMr.Omer.‘Well,sir,hercousin-youknowit’sacousinshe’sgoingtobemarriedto?’

           ‘Ohyes,’Ireplied.‘Iknowhimwell.’

           ‘Ofcourseyoudo,’saidMr.Omer.‘Well,sir!Hercousinbeing,asitappears,ingoodwork,andwelltodo,thankedmeinaverymanlysortofmannerforthis(conductinghimselfaltogether,Imustsay,inawaythatgivesmeahighopinionofhim),andwentandtookascomfortablealittlehouseasyouorIcouldwishtoclapeyeson.Thatlittlehouseisnowfurnishedrightthrough,asneatandcompleteasadoll’sparlour;andbutforBarkis’sillnesshavingtakenthisbadturn,poorfellow,theywouldhavebeenmanandwifeIdaresay,bythistime.Asitis,there’sapostponement.’

           ‘AndEmily,Mr.Omer?’Iinquired.‘Hasshebecomemoresettled?’

           ‘Whythat,youknow,’hereturned,rubbinghisdoublechinagain,‘can’tnaturallybeexpected.

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