Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am a New Boy in More Senses than One

           

           ‘Ifitismiserabletobear,whensheishere,’hesaid,‘whatwoulditbe,andsheaway?No,no,no.Icannottrythat.’

           Heleanedagainstthechimney-piece,broodingsolongthatIcouldnotdecidewhethertoruntheriskofdisturbinghimbygoing,ortoremainquietlywhereIwas,untilheshouldcomeoutofhisreverie.Atlengthhearousedhimself,andlookedabouttheroomuntilhiseyesencounteredmine.

           ‘Staywithus,Trotwood,eh?’hesaidinhisusualmanner,andasifhewereansweringsomethingIhadjustsaid.‘Iamgladofit.Youarecompanytousboth.Itiswholesometohaveyouhere.Wholesomeforme,wholesomeforAgnes,wholesomeperhapsforallofus.’

           ‘Iamsureitisforme,sir,’Isaid.‘Iamsogladtobehere.’

           ‘That’safinefellow!’saidMr.Wickfield.‘Aslongasyouaregladtobehere,youshallstayhere.’Heshookhandswithmeuponit,andclappedmeontheback;andtoldmethatwhenIhadanythingtodoatnightafterAgneshadleftus,orwhenIwishedtoreadformyownpleasure,Iwasfreetocomedowntohisroom,ifhewerethereandifIdesireditforcompany’ssake,andtositwithhim.Ithankedhimforhisconsideration;and,ashewentdownsoonafterwards,andIwasnottired,wentdowntoo,withabookinmyhand,toavailmyself,forhalf-an-hour,ofhispermission.

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