Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           Paul’sCathedral(withapinkdome)paintedonthetop;atthebrassthimbleonherfinger;atherself,whomIthoughtlovely.Ifeltsosleepy,thatIknewifIlostsightofanythingforamoment,Iwasgone.

           ‘Peggotty,’saysI,suddenly,‘wereyouevermarried?’

           ‘Lord,MasterDavy,’repliedPeggotty.‘What’sputmarriageinyourhead?’

           Sheansweredwithsuchastart,thatitquiteawokeme.Andthenshestoppedinherwork,andlookedatme,withherneedledrawnouttoitsthread’slength.

           ‘ButWEREyouevermarried,Peggotty?’saysI.‘Youareaveryhandsomewoman,an’tyou?’

           Ithoughtherinadifferentstylefrommymother,certainly;butofanotherschoolofbeauty,Iconsideredheraperfectexample.Therewasaredvelvetfootstoolinthebestparlour,onwhichmymotherhadpaintedanosegay.Theground-workofthatstool,andPeggotty’scomplexionappearedtometobeoneandthesamething.Thestoolwassmooth,andPeggottywasrough,butthatmadenodifference.

           ‘Mehandsome,Davy!’saidPeggotty.‘Lawk,no,mydear!Butwhatputmarriageinyourhead?’

           ‘Idon’tknow!Youmustn’tmarrymorethanonepersonatatime,mayyou,Peggotty?’

           ‘Certainlynot,’saysPeggotty,withthepromptestdecision.

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