Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           

           Theunbrokenstillnessoftheparlourwindowleadingmetoinfer,afterawhile,thatshewasnotthere,Iliftedupmyeyestothewindowaboveit,whereIsawaflorid,pleasant-lookinggentleman,withagreyhead,whoshutuponeeyeinagrotesquemanner,noddedhisheadatmeseveraltimes,shookitatmeasoften,laughed,andwentaway.

           Ihadbeendiscomposedenoughbefore;butIwassomuchthemorediscomposedbythisunexpectedbehaviour,thatIwasonthepointofslinkingoff,tothinkhowIhadbestproceed,whentherecameoutofthehousealadywithherhandkerchieftiedoverhercap,andapairofgardeningglovesonherhands,wearingagardeningpocketlikeatoll-man’sapron,andcarryingagreatknife.IknewherimmediatelytobeMissBetsey,forshecamestalkingoutofthehouseexactlyasmypoormotherhadsooftendescribedherstalkingupourgardenatBlunderstoneRookery.

           ‘Goaway!’saidMissBetsey,shakingherhead,andmakingadistantchopintheairwithherknife.‘Goalong!Noboyshere!’

           Iwatchedher,withmyheartatmylips,asshemarchedtoacornerofhergarden,andstoopedtodigupsomelittlerootthere.Then,withoutascrapofcourage,butwithagreatdealofdesperation,Iwentsoftlyinandstoodbesideher,touchingherwithmyfinger.

           ‘Ifyouplease,ma’am,’Ibegan.

           Shestartedandlookedup.

           ‘Ifyouplease,aunt.

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