Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           

           Asthiswasagreatdealforthecarrier(whosenamewasMr.Barkis)tosayhebeing,asIobservedinaformerchapter,ofaphlegmatictemperament,andnotatallconversationalIofferedhimacakeasamarkofattention,whichheateatonegulp,exactlylikeanelephant,andwhichmadenomoreimpressiononhisbigfacethanitwouldhavedoneonanelephant’s.

           ‘DidSHEmake‘em,now?’saidMr.Barkis,alwaysleaningforward,inhisslouchingway,onthefootboardofthecartwithanarmoneachknee.

           ‘Peggotty,doyoumean,sir?’

           ‘Ah!’saidMr.Barkis.‘Her.’

           ‘Yes.Shemakesallourpastry,anddoesallourcooking.’

           ‘Doshethough?’saidMr.Barkis.Hemadeuphismouthasiftowhistle,buthedidn’twhistle.Hesatlookingatthehorse’sears,asifhesawsomethingnewthere;andsatso,foraconsiderabletime.Byandby,hesaid:

           ‘Nosweethearts,Ib’lieve?’

           ‘Sweetmeatsdidyousay,Mr.Barkis?’ForIthoughthewantedsomethingelsetoeat,andhadpointedlyalludedtothatdescriptionofrefreshment.

           ‘Hearts,’saidMr.Barkis.‘Sweethearts;nopersonwalkswithher!’

           ‘WithPeggotty?’

           ‘Ah!’hesaid.‘Her.’

           ‘Oh,no.Sheneverhadasweetheart.’

           ‘Didn’tshe,though!’saidMr.Barkis.

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