Дэвид Копперфильд

Martha

           

           Hewaseatingaswellasdrinking,andseemedtoeatwithahungryappetite.Heseemedcuriousregardingthecottage,too,asifitwerethefirsttimehehadseenit.Afterstoopingtoputthebottleontheground,helookedupatthewindows,andlookedabout;thoughwithacovertandimpatientair,asifhewasanxioustobegone.

           Thelightinthepassagewasobscuredforamoment,andmyauntcameout.Shewasagitated,andtoldsomemoneyintohishand.Ihearditchink.

           ‘What’stheuseofthis?’hedemanded.

           ‘Icansparenomore,’returnedmyaunt.

           ‘ThenIcan’tgo,’saidhe.‘Here!Youmaytakeitback!’

           ‘Youbadman,’returnedmyaunt,withgreatemotion;‘howcanyouusemeso?ButwhydoIask?ItisbecauseyouknowhowweakIam!WhathaveItodo,tofreemyselfforeverofyourvisits,buttoabandonyoutoyourdeserts?’

           ‘Andwhydon’tyouabandonmetomydeserts?’saidhe.

           ‘Youaskmewhy!’returnedmyaunt.‘Whataheartyoumusthave!’

           Hestoodmoodilyrattlingthemoney,andshakinghishead,untilatlengthhesaid:

           ‘Isthisallyoumeantogiveme,then?’

           ‘ItisallICANgiveyou,’saidmyaunt.‘YouknowIhavehadlosses,andampoorerthanIusedtobe.Ihavetoldyouso.

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