Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Change

           Butourintimacywasmuchadvancedbyhistakingmeonhisbacktocarrymehome.Hewas,now,ahuge,strongfellowofsixfeethigh,broadinproportion,andround-shouldered;butwithasimperingboy’sfaceandcurlylighthairthatgavehimquiteasheepishlook.Hewasdressedinacanvasjacket,andapairofsuchverystifftrousersthattheywouldhavestoodquiteaswellalone,withoutanylegsinthem.Andyoucouldn’tsoproperlyhavesaidheworeahat,asthathewascoveredina-top,likeanoldbuilding,withsomethingpitchy.

           Hamcarryingmeonhisbackandasmallboxofoursunderhisarm,andPeggottycarryinganothersmallboxofours,weturneddownlanesbestrewnwithbitsofchipsandlittlehillocksofsand,andwentpastgas-works,rope-walks,boat-builders’yards,shipwrights’yards,ship-breakers’yards,caulkers’yards,riggers’lofts,smiths’forges,andagreatlitterofsuchplaces,untilwecameoutuponthedullwasteIhadalreadyseenatadistance;whenHamsaid,

           ‘Yon’sourhouse,Mas’rDavy!’

           Ilookedinalldirections,asfarasIcouldstareoverthewilderness,andawayatthesea,andawayattheriver,butnohousecouldImakeout.Therewasablackbarge,orsomeotherkindofsuperannuatedboat,notfaroff,highanddryontheground,withanironfunnelstickingoutofitforachimneyandsmokingverycosily;butnothingelseinthewayofahabitationthatwasvisibletome.

           ‘That’snotit?’saidI.

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