Дэвид Копперфильд

Mischief

           WhyshouldIdreadyourdoingyourworsttoallaboutyou?Whatelsedoyoueverdo?’

           Heperfectlyunderstoodthisallusiontotheconsiderationsthathadhithertorestrainedmeinmycommunicationswithhim.Iratherthinkthatneithertheblow,northeallusion,wouldhaveescapedme,butfortheassuranceIhadhadfromAgnesthatnight.Itisnomatter.

           Therewasanotherlongpause.Hiseyes,ashelookedatme,seemedtotakeeveryshadeofcolourthatcouldmakeeyesugly.

           ‘Copperfield,’hesaid,removinghishandfromhischeek,‘youhavealwaysgoneagainstme.IknowyoualwaysusedtobeagainstmeatMr.Wickfield’s.’

           ‘Youmaythinkwhatyoulike,’saidI,stillinatoweringrage.‘Ifitisnottrue,somuchtheworthieryou.’

           ‘AndyetIalwayslikedyou,Copperfield!’herejoined.

           Ideignedtomakehimnoreply;and,takingupmyhat,wasgoingouttobed,whenhecamebetweenmeandthedoor.

           ‘Copperfield,’hesaid,‘theremustbetwopartiestoaquarrel.Iwon’tbeone.’

           ‘Youmaygotothedevil!’saidI.

           ‘Don’tsaythat!’hereplied.‘Iknowyou’llbesorryafterwards.Howcanyoumakeyourselfsoinferiortome,astoshowsuchabadspirit?ButIforgiveyou.’

           ‘Youforgiveme!’Irepeateddisdainfully.

           ‘Ido,andyoucan’thelpyourself,’repliedUriah.

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