Дэвид Копперфильд

Steerforth’s Home

           

           IcouldhardlybelievebutthatIwasinadream,andthatIshouldwakepresentlyinnumberforty-four,tothesolitaryboxinthecoffee-roomandthefamiliarwaiteragain.AfterIhadwrittentomyauntandtoldherofmyfortunatemeetingwithmyadmiredoldschoolfellow,andmyacceptanceofhisinvitation,wewentoutinahackney-chariot,andsawaPanoramaandsomeothersights,andtookawalkthroughtheMuseum,whereIcouldnothelpobservinghowmuchSteerforthknew,onaninfinitevarietyofsubjects,andofhowlittleaccountheseemedtomakehisknowledge.

           ‘You’lltakeahighdegreeatcollege,Steerforth,’saidI,‘ifyouhavenotdonesoalready;andtheywillhavegoodreasontobeproudofyou.’

           ‘Itakeadegree!’criedSteerforth.‘NotI!mydearDaisywillyoumindmycallingyouDaisy?’

           ‘Notatall!’saidI.

           ‘That’sagoodfellow!MydearDaisy,’saidSteerforth,laughing.‘Ihavenottheleastdesireorintentiontodistinguishmyselfinthatway.Ihavedonequitesufficientformypurpose.IfindthatIamheavycompanyenoughformyselfasIam.’

           ‘ButthefameIwasbeginning.

           ‘YouromanticDaisy!’saidSteerforth,laughingstillmoreheartily:‘whyshouldItroublemyself,thataparcelofheavy-headedfellowsmaygapeandholduptheirhands?Letthemdoitatsomeotherman.There’sfameforhim,andhe’swelcometoit.

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