Дэвид Копперфильд

Dora’s Aunts

           

           Ihadavaguesensationofbeing,asitwere,onview,whenthemaidopenedit;andofwavering,somehow,acrossahallwithaweather-glassinit,intoaquietlittledrawing-roomontheground-floor,commandinganeatgarden.Alsoofsittingdownhere,onasofa,andseeingTraddles’shairstartup,nowhishatwasremoved,likeoneofthoseobtrusivelittlefiguresmadeofsprings,thatflyoutoffictitioussnuff-boxeswhenthelidistakenoff.Alsoofhearinganold-fashionedclocktickingawayonthechimney-piece,andtryingtomakeitkeeptimetothejerkingofmyheart,whichitwouldn’t.AlsooflookingroundtheroomforanysignofDora,andseeingnone.AlsoofthinkingthatJiponcebarkedinthedistance,andwasinstantlychokedbysomebody.UltimatelyIfoundmyselfbackingTraddlesintothefireplace,andbowingingreatconfusiontotwodrylittleelderlyladies,dressedinblack,andeachlookingwonderfullylikeapreparationinchiportanofthelateMr.Spenlow.

           ‘Pray,’saidoneofthetwolittleladies,‘beseated.’

           WhenIhaddonetumblingoverTraddles,andhadsatuponsomethingwhichwasnotacatmyfirstseatwasIsofarrecoveredmysight,astoperceivethatMr.

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