Дэвид Копперфильд

Mr. Micawber’s Transactions

           NowAgnes,mydear,letusattendtotheseaffairs.’

           ‘ImustdoMr.Micawberthejusticetosay,’Traddlesbegan,‘thatalthoughhewouldappearnottohaveworkedtoanygoodaccountforhimself,heisamostuntiringmanwhenheworksforotherpeople.Ineversawsuchafellow.Ifhealwaysgoesoninthesameway,hemustbe,virtually,abouttwohundredyearsold,atpresent.Theheatintowhichhehasbeencontinuallyputtinghimself;andthedistractedandimpetuousmannerinwhichhehasbeendiving,dayandnight,amongpapersandbooks;tosaynothingoftheimmensenumberoflettershehaswrittenmebetweenthishouseandMr.Wickfield’s,andoftenacrossthetablewhenhehasbeensittingopposite,andmightmuchmoreeasilyhavespoken;isquiteextraordinary.’

           ‘Letters!’criedmyaunt.‘Ibelievehedreamsinletters!’

           ‘There’sMr.Dick,too,’saidTraddles,‘hasbeendoingwonders!AssoonashewasreleasedfromoverlookingUriahHeep,whomhekeptinsuchchargeasIneversawexceeded,hebegantodevotehimselftoMr.Wickfield.Andreallyhisanxietytobeofuseintheinvestigationswehavebeenmaking,andhisrealusefulnessinextracting,andcopying,andfetching,andcarrying,havebeenquitestimulatingtous.’

           ‘Dickisaveryremarkableman,’exclaimedmyaunt;‘andIalwayssaidhewas.Trot,youknowit.

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