Девід Копперфільд

I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like it

           Micawber,‘Imakenostrangerofyou,andthereforedonothesitatetosaythatMr.Micawber’sdifficultiesarecomingtoacrisis.’

           Itmademeverymiserabletohearit,andIlookedatMrs.Micawber’sredeyeswiththeutmostsympathy.

           ‘WiththeexceptionoftheheelofaDutchcheesewhichisnotadaptedtothewantsofayoungfamily’saidMrs.Micawber,‘thereisreallynotascrapofanythinginthelarder.IwasaccustomedtospeakofthelarderwhenIlivedwithpapaandmama,andIusethewordalmostunconsciously.WhatImeantoexpressis,thatthereisnothingtoeatinthehouse.’

           ‘Dearme!’Isaid,ingreatconcern.

           Ihadtwoorthreeshillingsofmyweek’smoneyinmypocketfromwhichIpresumethatitmusthavebeenonaWednesdaynightwhenweheldthisconversationandIhastilyproducedthem,andwithheartfeltemotionbeggedMrs.Micawbertoacceptofthemasaloan.Butthatlady,kissingme,andmakingmeputthembackinmypocket,repliedthatshecouldn’tthinkofit.

           ‘No,mydearMasterCopperfield,’saidshe,‘farbeitfrommythoughts!Butyouhaveadiscretionbeyondyouryears,andcanrendermeanotherkindofservice,ifyouwill;andaserviceIwillthankfullyacceptof.’

           IbeggedMrs.Micawbertonameit.

           ‘Ihavepartedwiththeplatemyself,’saidMrs.Micawber.

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