Дэвид Копперфильд

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           Andyet,Iwasperverseenoughtofeelachillanddisappointmentinreceivingnowelcome,andrattling,aloneandsilent,throughthemistystreets.

           Thewell-knownshops,however,withtheircheerfullights,didsomethingforme;andwhenIalightedatthedooroftheGray’sInnCoffee-house,Ihadrecoveredmyspirits.Itrecalled,atfirst,thatso-differenttimewhenIhadputupattheGoldenCross,andremindedmeofthechangesthathadcometopasssincethen;butthatwasnatural.

           ‘DoyouknowwhereMr.TraddleslivesintheInn?’Iaskedthewaiter,asIwarmedmyselfbythecoffee-roomfire.

           ‘HolbornCourt,sir.Numbertwo.’

           ‘Mr.Traddleshasarisingreputationamongthelawyers,Ibelieve?’saidI.

           ‘Well,sir,’returnedthewaiter,‘probablyhehas,sir;butIamnotawareofitmyself.’

           Thiswaiter,whowasmiddle-agedandspare,lookedforhelptoawaiterofmoreauthorityastout,potentialoldman,withadoublechin,inblackbreechesandstockings,whocameoutofaplacelikeachurchwarden’spew,attheendofthecoffee-room,wherehekeptcompanywithacash-box,aDirectory,aLaw-list,andotherbooksandpapers.

           ‘Mr.Traddles,’saidthesparewaiter.‘NumbertwointheCourt.’

           Thepotentialwaiterwavedhimaway,andturned,gravely,tome.

           ‘Iwasinquiring,’saidI,‘whetherMr.

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