Дэвид Копперфильд

Dora’s Aunts

           

           ExcellentfellowasIknewTraddlestobe,andwarmlyattachedtohimasIwas,Icouldnothelpwishing,onthatdelicateoccasion,thathehadnevercontractedthehabitofbrushinghishairsoveryupright.Itgavehimasurprisedlooknottosayahearth-broomykindofexpressionwhich,myapprehensionswhispered,mightbefataltous.

           ItookthelibertyofmentioningittoTraddles,aswewerewalkingtoPutney;andsayingthatifheWOULDsmoothitdownalittle

           ‘MydearCopperfield,’saidTraddles,liftingoffhishat,andrubbinghishairallkindsofways,‘nothingwouldgivemegreaterpleasure.Butitwon’t.’

           ‘Won’tbesmootheddown?’saidI.

           ‘No,’saidTraddles.‘Nothingwillinduceit.IfIwastocarryahalf-hundred-weightuponit,allthewaytoPutney,itwouldbeupagainthemomenttheweightwastakenoff.Youhavenoideawhatobstinatehairmineis,Copperfield.Iamquiteafretfulporcupine.’

           Iwasalittledisappointed,Imustconfess,butthoroughlycharmedbyhisgood-naturetoo.ItoldhimhowIesteemedhisgood-nature;andsaidthathishairmusthavetakenalltheobstinacyoutofhischaracter,forhehadnone.

           ‘Oh!’returnedTraddles,laughing.‘Iassureyou,it’squiteanoldstory,myunfortunatehair.Myuncle’swifecouldn’tbearit.Shesaiditexasperatedher.Itstoodverymuchinmyway,too,whenIfirstfellinlovewithSophy.

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