Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Born

           

           Ithassincebeenconsideredalmostamiraclethatmyauntdidn’tshakehim,andshakewhathehadtosay,outofhim.Sheonlyshookherownheadathim,butinawaythatmadehimquail.

           ‘Well,ma’am,’resumedMr.Chillip,assoonashehadcourage,‘Iamhappytocongratulateyou.Allisnowover,ma’am,andwellover.’

           DuringthefiveminutesorsothatMr.Chillipdevotedtothedeliveryofthisoration,myaunteyedhimnarrowly.

           ‘Howisshe?’saidmyaunt,foldingherarmswithherbonnetstilltiedononeofthem.

           ‘Well,ma’am,shewillsoonbequitecomfortable,Ihope,’returnedMr.Chillip.‘Quiteascomfortableaswecanexpectayoungmothertobe,underthesemelancholydomesticcircumstances.Therecannotbeanyobjectiontoyourseeingherpresently,ma’am.Itmaydohergood.’

           ‘AndSHE.HowisSHE?’saidmyaunt,sharply.

           Mr.Chilliplaidhisheadalittlemoreononeside,andlookedatmyauntlikeanamiablebird.

           ‘Thebaby,’saidmyaunt.‘Howisshe?’

           ‘Ma’am,’returnedMr.Chillip,‘Iapprehendedyouhadknown.It’saboy.’

           Myauntsaidneveraword,buttookherbonnetbythestrings,inthemannerofasling,aimedablowatMr.Chillip’sheadwithit,putitonbent,walkedout,andnevercameback

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