Олівер Твіст

Chapter 18

           Whetheritwasthesenseoffreedomandindependencewhicharationalanimalmaybesupposedtofeelwhenhesitsonatableinaneasyattitudesmokingapipe,swingingonelegcarelesslytoandfro,andhavinghisbootscleanedallthetime,withouteventhepasttroubleofhavingtakenthemoff,ortheprospectivemiseryofputtingthemon,todisturbhisreflections;orwhetheritwasthegoodnessofthetobaccothatsoothedthefeelingsoftheDodger,orthemildnessofthebeerthatmollifiedhisthoughts;hewasevidentlytinctured,forthenonce,withaspiceofromanceandenthusiasm,foreigntohisgeneralnature.HelookeddownonOliver,withathoughtfulcountenance,forabriefspace;andthen,raisinghishead,andheavingagentlesign,said,halfinabstraction,andhalftoMasterBates:

           ‘Whatapityitisheisn’taprig!’

           ‘Ah!’saidMasterCharlesBates;‘hedon’tknowwhat’sgoodforhim.

           TheDodgersighedagain,andresumedhispipe:asdidCharleyBates.Theybothsmoked,forsomeseconds,insilence.

           ‘Isupposeyoudon’tevenknowwhataprigis?’saidtheDodgermournfully.

           ‘IthinkIknowthat,’repliedOliver,lookingup.‘It’sathe;you’reone,areyounot?’inquiredOliver,checkinghimself.

           ‘Iam,’repliedtheDoger.‘I’dscorntobeanythingelse.Mr.Dawkinsgavehishataferociouscock,afterdeliveringthissentiment,andlookedatMasterBates,asiftodenotethathewouldfeelobligedbyhissayinganythingtothecontrary.

           ‘Iam,’repeatedtheDodger.‘So’sCharley.

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