Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Born

           Hecarriedhisheadononeside,partlyinmodestdepreciationofhimself,partlyinmodestpropitiationofeverybodyelse.Itisnothingtosaythathehadn’tawordtothrowatadog.Hecouldn’thavethrownawordatamaddog.Hemighthaveofferedhimonegently,orhalfaone,orafragmentofone;forhespokeasslowlyashewalked;buthewouldn’thavebeenrudetohim,andhecouldn’thavebeenquickwithhim,foranyearthlyconsideration.

           Mr.Chillip,lookingmildlyatmyauntwithhisheadononeside,andmakingheralittlebow,said,inallusiontothejewellers’cotton,ashesoftlytouchedhisleftear:

           ‘Somelocalirritation,ma’am?’

           ‘What!’repliedmyaunt,pullingthecottonoutofoneearlikeacork.

           Mr.Chillipwassoalarmedbyherabruptnessashetoldmymotherafterwardsthatitwasamercyhedidn’tlosehispresenceofmind.Butherepeatedsweetly:

           ‘Somelocalirritation,ma’am?’

           ‘Nonsense!’repliedmyaunt,andcorkedherselfagain,atoneblow.

           Mr.Chillipcoulddonothingafterthis,butsitandlookatherfeebly,asshesatandlookedatthefire,untilhewascalledupstairsagain.Aftersomequarterofanhour’sabsence,hereturned.

           ‘Well?’saidmyaunt,takingthecottonoutoftheearnearesttohim.

           ‘Well,ma’am,’returnedMr.Chillip,‘weare-weareprogressingslowly,ma’am.

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