Дэвид Копперфильд

My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me

           

           Ilookedup,andmethersharpbrightglancerespectfully.

           ‘Ihavewrittentohim,’saidmyaunt.

           ‘To?’

           ‘Toyourfather-in-law,’saidmyaunt.‘IhavesenthimaletterthatI’lltroublehimtoattendto,orheandIwillfallout,Icantellhim!’

           ‘DoesheknowwhereIam,aunt?’Iinquired,alarmed.

           ‘Ihavetoldhim,’saidmyaunt,withanod.

           ‘ShallIbegivenuptohim?’Ifaltered.

           ‘Idon’tknow,’saidmyaunt.‘Weshallsee.’

           ‘Oh!Ican’tthinkwhatIshalldo,’Iexclaimed,‘ifIhavetogobacktoMr.Murdstone!’

           ‘Idon’tknowanythingaboutit,’saidmyaunt,shakingherhead.‘Ican’tsay,Iamsure.Weshallsee.’

           Myspiritssankunderthesewords,andIbecameverydowncastandheavyofheart.Myaunt,withoutappearingtotakemuchheedofme,putonacoarseapronwithabib,whichshetookoutofthepress;washeduptheteacupswithherownhands;and,wheneverythingwaswashedandsetinthetrayagain,andtheclothfoldedandputonthetopofthewhole,rangforJanettoremoveit.Shenextsweptupthecrumbswithalittlebroom(puttingonapairofglovesfirst),untiltheredidnotappeartobeonemicroscopicspeckleftonthecarpet;nextdustedandarrangedtheroom,whichwasdustedandarrangedtoahair’sbreadthalready.

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