Дэвид Копперфильд

I Enlarge My Circle of Acquaintance

           

           ‘So!’saidMr.Creakle.‘Thisistheyounggentlemanwhoseteetharetobefiled!Turnhimround.’

           Thewooden-leggedmanturnedmeaboutsoastoexhibittheplacard;andhavingaffordedtimeforafullsurveyofit,turnedmeaboutagain,withmyfacetoMr.Creakle,andpostedhimselfatMr.Creakle’sside.Mr.Creakle’sfacewasfiery,andhiseyesweresmall,anddeepinhishead;hehadthickveinsinhisforehead,alittlenose,andalargechin.Hewasbaldonthetopofhishead;andhadsomethinwet-lookinghairthatwasjustturninggrey,brushedacrosseachtemple,sothatthetwosidesinterlacedonhisforehead.Butthecircumstanceabouthimwhichimpressedmemost,was,thathehadnovoice,butspokeinawhisper.Theexertionthiscosthim,ortheconsciousnessoftalkinginthatfeebleway,madehisangryfacesomuchmoreangry,andhisthickveinssomuchthicker,whenhespoke,thatIamnotsurprised,onlookingback,atthispeculiaritystrikingmeashischiefone.‘Now,’saidMr.Creakle.‘What’sthereportofthisboy?’

           ‘There’snothingagainsthimyet,’returnedthemanwiththewoodenleg.‘Therehasbeennoopportunity.’

           IthoughtMr.Creaklewasdisappointed.IthoughtMrs.andMissCreakle(atwhomInowglancedforthefirsttime,andwhowere,both,thinandquiet)werenotdisappointed.

           ‘Comehere,sir!’saidMr.Creakle,beckoningtome.

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