Дэвид Копперфильд

The Beginning of a Long Journey

           

           ‘IfIhadshownmyselfasensitivedwarftoyourfalsefriend,’pursuedthelittlewoman,shakingherheadatme,withreproachfulearnestness,‘howmuchofhishelporgoodwilldoyouthinkIshouldeverhavehad?IflittleMowcher(whohadnohand,younggentleman,inthemakingofherself)addressedherselftohim,orthelikeofhim,becauseofhermisfortunes,whendoyousupposehersmallvoicewouldhavebeenheard?LittleMowcherwouldhaveasmuchneedtolive,ifshewasthebitterestanddullestofpigmies;butshecouldn’tdoit.No.ShemightwhistleforherbreadandbuttertillshediedofAir.’

           MissMowchersatdownonthefenderagain,andtookoutherhandkerchief,andwipedhereyes.

           ‘Bethankfulforme,ifyouhaveakindheart,asIthinkyouhave,’shesaid,‘thatwhileIknowwellwhatIam,Icanbecheerfulandendureitall.Iamthankfulformyself,atanyrate,thatIcanfindmytinywaythroughtheworld,withoutbeingbeholdentoanyone;andthatinreturnforallthatisthrownatme,infollyorvanity,asIgoalong,Icanthrowbubblesback.IfIdon’tbroodoverallIwant,itisthebetterforme,andnottheworseforanyone.IfIamaplaythingforyougiants,begentlewithme.’

           MissMowcherreplacedherhandkerchiefinherpocket,lookingatmewithveryintentexpressionallthewhile,andpursued:

           ‘Isawyouinthestreetjustnow.

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