Дэвид Копперфильд

Wickfield and Heep

           Thedaywasjustbreakingwhenwewereabouttostart,andthen,asIsatthinkingofher,camestrugglingupthecoachside,throughthemingleddayandnight,Uriah’shead.

           ‘Copperfield!’saidhe,inacroakingwhisper,ashehungbytheironontheroof,‘Ithoughtyou’dbegladtohearbeforeyouwentoff,thattherearenosquaresbrokebetweenus.I’vebeenintohisroomalready,andwe’vemadeitallsmooth.Why,thoughI’mumble,I’musefultohim,youknow;andheunderstandshisinterestwhenheisn’tinliquor!Whatanagreeablemanheis,afterall,MasterCopperfield!’

           IobligedmyselftosaythatIwasgladhehadmadehisapology.

           ‘Oh,tobesure!’saidUriah.‘Whenaperson’sumble,youknow,what’sanapology?Soeasy!Isay!Isuppose,’withajerk,‘youhavesometimespluckedapearbeforeitwasripe,MasterCopperfield?’

           ‘IsupposeIhave,’Ireplied.

           ‘Ididthatlastnight,’saidUriah;‘butit’llripenyet!Itonlywantsattendingto.Icanwait!’

           Profuseinhisfarewells,hegotdownagainasthecoachmangotup.ForanythingIknow,hewaseatingsomethingtokeeptherawmorningairout;buthemademotionswithhismouthasifthepearwereripealready,andheweresmackinghislipsoverit.

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