Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           

           ‘Andmydearboy,’criedmymother,comingtotheelbow-chairinwhichIwas,andcaressingme,‘myownlittleDavy!IsittobehintedtomethatIamwantinginaffectionformyprecioustreasure,thedearestlittlefellowthateverwas!’

           ‘Nobodyneverwentandhintednosuchathing,’saidPeggotty.

           ‘Youdid,Peggotty!’returnedmymother.‘Youknowyoudid.Whatelsewasitpossibletoinferfromwhatyousaid,youunkindcreature,whenyouknowaswellasIdo,thatonhisaccountonlylastquarterIwouldn’tbuymyselfanewparasol,thoughthatoldgreenoneisfrayedthewholewayup,andthefringeisperfectlymangy?Youknowitis,Peggotty.Youcan’tdenyit.’Then,turningaffectionatelytome,withhercheekagainstmine,‘AmIanaughtymamatoyou,Davy?AmIanasty,cruel,selfish,badmama?SayIam,mychild;say“yes”,dearboy,andPeggottywillloveyou;andPeggotty’sloveisagreatdealbetterthanmine,Davy.Idon’tloveyouatall,doI?’

           Atthis,weallfella-cryingtogether.IthinkIwastheloudestoftheparty,butIamsurewewereallsincereaboutit.Iwasquiteheart-brokenmyself,andamafraidthatinthefirsttransportsofwoundedtendernessIcalledPeggottya‘Beast’.

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