Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           Ithoughtitallextremelybeautiful,andmadeupmymindtosleepamongthehopsthatnight:imaginingsomecheerfulcompanionshipinthelongperspectivesofpoles,withthegracefulleavestwiningroundthem.

           Thetramperswereworsethaneverthatday,andinspiredmewithadreadthatisyetquitefreshinmymind.Someofthemweremostferocious-lookingruffians,whostaredatmeasIwentby;andstopped,perhaps,andcalledaftermetocomebackandspeaktothem,andwhenItooktomyheels,stonedme.Irecollectoneyoungfellowatinker,Isuppose,fromhiswalletandbrazierwhohadawomanwithhim,andwhofacedaboutandstaredatmethus;andthenroaredtomeinsuchatremendousvoicetocomeback,thatIhaltedandlookedround.

           ‘Comehere,whenyou’recalled,’saidthetinker,‘orI’llripyouryoungbodyopen.’

           Ithoughtitbesttogoback.AsIdrewnearertothem,tryingtopropitiatethetinkerbymylooks,Iobservedthatthewomanhadablackeye.

           ‘Whereareyougoing?’saidthetinker,grippingthebosomofmyshirtwithhisblackenedhand.

           ‘IamgoingtoDover,’Isaid.

           ‘Wheredoyoucomefrom?’askedthetinker,givinghishandanotherturninmyshirt,toholdmemoresecurely.

           ‘IcomefromLondon,’Isaid.

           ‘Whatlayareyouupon?’askedthetinker.‘Areyouaprig?’

           ‘N-no,’Isaid.

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