Дэвид Копперфильд

The Emigrants

           Micawberintheclosestandmostuncompromisingofbonnets,madefastunderthechin;andinashawlwhichtiedherup(asIhadbeentiedup,whenmyauntfirstreceivedme)likeabundle,andwassecuredbehindatthewaist,inastrongknot.MissMicawberIfoundmadesnugforstormyweather,inthesamemanner;withnothingsuperfluousabouther.MasterMicawberwashardlyvisibleinaGuernseyshirt,andtheshaggiestsuitofslopsIeversaw;andthechildrenweredoneup,likepreservedmeats,inimperviouscases.BothMr.Micawberandhiseldestsonworetheirsleeveslooselyturnedbackatthewrists,asbeingreadytolendahandinanydirection,andto‘tumbleup’,orsingout,‘Yeo—HeaveYeo!’ontheshortestnotice.

           ThusTraddlesandIfoundthematnightfall,assembledonthewoodensteps,atthattimeknownasHungerfordStairs,watchingthedepartureofaboatwithsomeoftheirpropertyonboard.IhadtoldTraddlesoftheterribleevent,andithadgreatlyshockedhim;buttherecouldbenodoubtofthekindnessofkeepingitasecret,andhehadcometohelpmeinthislastservice.ItwasherethatItookMr.Micawberaside,andreceivedhispromise.

           TheMicawberfamilywerelodgedinalittle,dirty,tumble-downpublic-house,whichinthosedayswasclosetothestairs,andwhoseprotrudingwoodenroomsoverhungtheriver.Thefamily,asemigrants,beingobjectsofsomeinterestinandaboutHungerford,attractedsomanybeholders,thatweweregladtotakerefugeintheirroom.

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