Девід Копперфільд

Somebody Turns up

           Micawber,withabow,‘youareveryobliging:andwhatareyoudoing,Copperfield?Stillinthewinetrade?’

           IwasexcessivelyanxioustogetMr.Micawberaway;andreplied,withmyhatinmyhand,andaveryredface,Ihavenodoubt,thatIwasapupilatDoctorStrong’s.

           ‘Apupil?’saidMr.Micawber,raisinghiseyebrows.‘Iamextremelyhappytohearit.AlthoughamindlikemyfriendCopperfield’s’—toUriahandMrs.Heep—‘doesnotrequirethatcultivationwhich,withouthisknowledgeofmenandthings,itwouldrequire,stillitisarichsoilteemingwithlatentvegetation—inshort,’saidMr.Micawber,smiling,inanotherburstofconfidence,‘itisanintellectcapableofgettinguptheclassicstoanyextent.’

           Uriah,withhislonghandsslowlytwiningoveroneanother,madeaghastlywrithefromthewaistupwards,toexpresshisconcurrenceinthisestimationofme.

           ‘ShallwegoandseeMrs.Micawber,sir?’Isaid,togetMr.Micawberaway.

           ‘Ifyouwilldoherthatfavour,Copperfield,’repliedMr.Micawber,rising.‘Ihavenoscrupleinsaying,inthepresenceofourfriendshere,thatIamamanwhohas,forsomeyears,contendedagainstthepressureofpecuniarydifficulties.’Iknewhewascertaintosaysomethingofthiskind;healwayswouldbesoboastfulabouthisdifficulties.‘SometimesIhaverisensuperiortomydifficulties.Sometimesmydifficultieshave—inshort,haveflooredme.

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Roboto Lora
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