Дэвид Копперфильд

Our Housekeeping

           

           ‘Mydearestlife,’IsaidonedaytoDora,‘doyouthinkMaryAnnehasanyideaoftime?’

           ‘Why,Doady?’inquiredDora,lookingup,innocently,fromherdrawing.

           ‘Mylove,becauseit’sfive,andweweretohavedinedatfour.’

           Doraglancedwistfullyattheclock,andhintedthatshethoughtitwastoofast.

           ‘Onthecontrary,mylove,’saidI,referringtomywatch,‘it’safewminutestooslow.’

           Mylittlewifecameandsatuponmyknee,tocoaxmetobequiet,anddrewalinewithherpencildownthemiddleofmynose;butIcouldn’tdineoffthat,thoughitwasveryagreeable.

           ‘Don’tyouthink,mydear,’saidI,‘itwouldbebetterforyoutoremonstratewithMaryAnne?’

           ‘Ohno,please!Icouldn’t,Doady!’saidDora.

           ‘Whynot,mylove?’Igentlyasked.

           ‘Oh,becauseIamsuchalittlegoose,’saidDora,‘andsheknowsIam!’

           IthoughtthissentimentsoincompatiblewiththeestablishmentofanysystemofcheckonMaryAnne,thatIfrownedalittle.

           ‘Oh,whatuglywrinklesinmybadboy’sforehead!’saidDora,andstillbeingonmyknee,shetracedthemwithherpencil;puttingittoherrosylipstomakeitmarkblacker,andworkingatmyforeheadwithaquaintlittlemockeryofbeingindustrious,thatquitedelightedmeinspiteofmyself.

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