Дэвид Копперфильд

Depression

           

           ‘Well,then,whyDON’Tyouthinkso?’saidmyaunt.

           ‘BecauseyouandIareverydifferentpeople,’Ireturned.

           ‘Stuffandnonsense,Trot!’repliedmyaunt.

           Myauntwentonwithaquietenjoyment,inwhichtherewasverylittleaffectation,ifany;drinkingthewarmalewithatea-spoon,andsoakingherstripsoftoastinit.

           ‘Trot,’saidshe,‘Idon’tcareforstrangefacesingeneral,butIratherlikethatBarkisofyours,doyouknow!’

           ‘It’sbetterthanahundredpoundstohearyousayso!’saidI.

           ‘It’samostextraordinaryworld,’observedmyaunt,rubbinghernose;‘howthatwomanevergotintoitwiththatname,isunaccountabletome.ItwouldbemuchmoreeasytobebornaJackson,orsomethingofthatsort,onewouldthink.’

           ‘Perhapsshethinksso,too;it’snotherfault,’saidI.

           ‘Isupposenot,’returnedmyaunt,rathergrudgingtheadmission;‘butit’sveryaggravating.However,she’sBarkisnow.That’ssomecomfort.Barkisisuncommonlyfondofyou,Trot.’

           ‘Thereisnothingshewouldleaveundonetoproveit,’saidI.

           ‘Nothing,Ibelieve,’returnedmyaunt.‘Here,thepoorfoolhasbeenbeggingandprayingabouthandingoversomeofhermoneybecauseshehasgottoomuchofit.

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Roboto Lora
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