Дэвид Копперфильд

Enthusiasm

           

           ‘There’salongstatementinthepapers,sir,aboutamurder,’observedMr.Maldon.‘Butsomebodyisalwaysbeingmurdered,andIdidn’treadit.’

           Adisplayofindifferencetoalltheactionsandpassionsofmankindwasnotsupposedtobesuchadistinguishedqualityatthattime,Ithink,asIhaveobservedittobeconsideredsince.Ihaveknownitveryfashionableindeed.Ihaveseenitdisplayedwithsuchsuccess,thatIhaveencounteredsomefineladiesandgentlemenwhomightaswellhavebeenborncaterpillars.Perhapsitimpressedmethemorethen,becauseitwasnewtome,butitcertainlydidnottendtoexaltmyopinionof,ortostrengthenmyconfidencein,Mr.JackMaldon.

           ‘IcameouttoinquirewhetherAnniewouldliketogototheoperatonight,’saidMr.Maldon,turningtoher.‘It’sthelastgoodnighttherewillbe,thisseason;andthere’sasingerthere,whomshereallyoughttohear.Sheisperfectlyexquisite.Besideswhich,sheissocharminglyugly,’relapsingintolanguor.

           TheDoctor,everpleasedwithwhatwaslikelytopleasehisyoungwife,turnedtoherandsaid:

           ‘Youmustgo,Annie.Youmustgo.’

           ‘Iwouldrathernot,’shesaidtotheDoctor.‘Iprefertoremainathome.Iwouldmuchratherremainathome.

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