Дэвид Копперфильд

Depression

           

           ‘Trot,mydear,’saidmyaunt,whenshesawmemakingpreparationsforcompoundingherusualnight-draught,‘No!’

           ‘Nothing,aunt?’

           ‘Notwine,mydear.Ale.’

           ‘Butthereiswinehere,aunt.Andyoualwayshaveitmadeofwine.’

           ‘Keepthat,incaseofsickness,’saidmyaunt.‘Wemustn’tuseitcarelessly,Trot.Aleforme.Halfapint.’

           IthoughtMr.Dickwouldhavefallen,insensible.Myauntbeingresolute,Iwentoutandgotthealemyself.Asitwasgrowinglate,PeggottyandMr.Dicktookthatopportunityofrepairingtothechandler’sshoptogether.Ipartedfromhim,poorfellow,atthecornerofthestreet,withhisgreatkiteathisback,averymonumentofhumanmisery.

           MyauntwaswalkingupanddowntheroomwhenIreturned,crimpingthebordersofhernightcapwithherfingers.Iwarmedthealeandmadethetoastontheusualinfallibleprinciples.Whenitwasreadyforher,shewasreadyforit,withhernightcapon,andtheskirtofhergownturnedbackonherknees.

           ‘Mydear,’saidmyaunt,aftertakingaspoonfulofit;‘it’sagreatdealbetterthanwine.Nothalfsobilious.’

           IsupposeIlookeddoubtful,forsheadded:

           ‘Tut,tut,child.IfnothingworsethanAlehappenstous,wearewelloff.’

           ‘Ishouldthinksomyself,aunt,Iamsure,’saidI.

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