Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           

           ‘Ain’tyou,byG?Ifyoumakeabragofyourhonestytome,’saidthetinker,‘I’llknockyourbrainsout.’

           Withhisdisengagedhandhemadeamenaceofstrikingme,andthenlookedatmefromheadtofoot.

           ‘Haveyougotthepriceofapintofbeeraboutyou?’saidthetinker.‘Ifyouhave,outwithit,aforeItakeitaway!’

           Ishouldcertainlyhaveproducedit,butthatImetthewoman’slook,andsawherveryslightlyshakeherhead,andform‘No!’withherlips.

           ‘Iamverypoor,’Isaid,attemptingtosmile,‘andhavegotnomoney.’

           ‘Why,whatdoyoumean?’saidthetinker,lookingsosternlyatme,thatIalmostfearedhesawthemoneyinmypocket.

           ‘Sir!’Istammered.

           ‘Whatdoyoumean,’saidthetinker,‘bywearingmybrother’ssilkhandkerchief!Giveitoverhere!’Andhehadmineoffmyneckinamoment,andtossedittothewoman.

           Thewomanburstintoafitoflaughter,asifshethoughtthisajoke,andtosseditbacktome,noddedonce,asslightlyasbefore,andmadetheword‘Go!’withherlips.BeforeIcouldobey,however,thetinkerseizedthehandkerchiefoutofmyhandwitharoughnessthatthrewmeawaylikeafeather,andputtingitlooselyroundhisownneck,turneduponthewomanwithanoath,andknockedherdown.

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