Дэвид Копперфильд

Depression

           ThenIsatdowninmyshadycorner,lookingupatthesunlightontheoppositechimney-pots,andthinkingaboutDora;untilMr.Spenlowcamein,crispandcurly.

           ‘Howareyou,Copperfield?’saidhe.‘Finemorning!’

           ‘Beautifulmorning,sir,’saidI.‘CouldIsayawordtoyoubeforeyougointoCourt?’

           ‘Byallmeans,’saidhe.‘Comeintomyroom.’

           Ifollowedhimintohisroom,andhebeganputtingonhisgown,andtouchinghimselfupbeforealittleglasshehad,hanginginsideaclosetdoor.

           ‘Iamsorrytosay,’saidI,‘thatIhavesomeratherdishearteningintelligencefrommyaunt.’

           ‘No!’saidhe.‘Dearme!Notparalysis,Ihope?’

           ‘Ithasnoreferencetoherhealth,sir,’Ireplied.‘Shehasmetwithsomelargelosses.Infact,shehasverylittleleft,indeed.’

           ‘Youas-toundme,Copperfield!’criedMr.Spenlow.

           Ishookmyhead.‘Indeed,sir,’saidI,‘heraffairsaresochanged,thatIwishedtoaskyouwhetheritwouldbepossibleatasacrificeonourpartofsomeportionofthepremium,ofcourse,’Iputinthis,onthespurofthemoment,warnedbytheblankexpressionofhisface‘tocancelmyarticles?’

           Whatitcostmetomakethisproposal,nobodyknows.Itwaslikeasking,asafavour,tobesentencedtotransportationfromDora.

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Roboto Lora
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