Тяжкі часи

The Whelp

           Sheusedtocomplaintomethatshehadnothingtofallbackupon,thatgirlsusuallyfallbackupon;andIdon’tseehowsheistohavegotoverthatsince.Butshedon’tmind,’hesagaciouslyadded,puffingathiscigaragain.‘Girlscanalwaysgeton,somehow.’

           ‘CallingattheBankyesterdayevening,forMr.Bounderby’saddress,Ifoundanancientladythere,whoseemstoentertaingreatadmirationforyoursister,’observedMr.JamesHarthouse,throwingawaythelastsmallremnantofthecigarhehadnowsmokedout.

           ‘MotherSparsit!’saidTom.‘What!youhaveseenheralready,haveyou?’

           Hisfriendnodded.Tomtookhiscigaroutofhismouth,toshutuphiseye(whichhadgrownratherunmanageable)withthegreaterexpression,andtotaphisnoseseveraltimeswithhisfinger.

           ‘MotherSparsit’sfeelingforLooismorethanadmiration,Ishouldthink,’saidTom.‘Sayaffectionanddevotion.MotherSparsitneversethercapatBounderbywhenhewasabachelor.Ohno!’

           Thesewerethelastwordsspokenbythewhelp,beforeagiddydrowsinesscameuponhim,followedbycompleteoblivion.Hewasrousedfromthelatterstatebyanuneasydreamofbeingstirredupwithaboot,andalsoofavoicesaying:‘Come,it’slate.Beoff!’

           ‘Well!’hesaid,scramblingfromthesofa.‘Imusttakemyleaveofyouthough.Isay.Yoursisverygoodtobacco.Butit’stoomild.’

           ‘Yes,it’stoomild,’returnedhisentertainer.

           ‘It’sit’sridiculouslymild,’saidTom

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