Дэвид Копперфильд

A Little Cold Water

           Oh,don’tbedreadful!’

           Idreadful!ToDora!

           ‘Don’ttalkaboutbeingpoor,andworkinghard!’saidDora,nestlingclosertome.‘Oh,don’t,don’t!’

           ‘Mydearestlove,’saidI,‘thecrustwell-earned

           ‘Oh,yes;butIdon’twanttohearanymoreaboutcrusts!’saidDora.‘AndJipmusthaveamutton-chopeverydayattwelve,orhe’lldie.’

           Iwascharmedwithherchildish,winningway.IfondlyexplainedtoDorathatJipshouldhavehismutton-chopwithhisaccustomedregularity.Idrewapictureofourfrugalhome,madeindependentbymylaboursketchinginthelittlehouseIhadseenatHighgate,andmyauntinherroomupstairs.

           ‘Iamnotdreadfulnow,Dora?’saidI,tenderly.

           ‘Oh,no,no!’criedDora.‘ButIhopeyourauntwillkeepinherownroomagooddeal.AndIhopeshe’snotascoldingoldthing!’

           IfitwerepossibleformetoloveDoramorethanever,IamsureIdid.ButIfeltshewasalittleimpracticable.Itdampedmynew-bornardour,tofindthatardoursodifficultofcommunicationtoher.Imadeanothertrial.Whenshewasquiteherselfagain,andwascurlingJip’sears,ashelayuponherlap,Ibecamegrave,andsaid:

           ‘Myown!MayImentionsomething?’

           ‘Oh,pleasedon’tbepractical!’saidDora,coaxingly.

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