Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Change

           Paul’sandthebitofwax-candle,asiftheyhadneverknownanyotherroof.Ham,whohadbeengivingmemyfirstlessoninall-fours,wastryingtorecollectaschemeoftellingfortuneswiththedirtycards,andwasprintingofffishyimpressionsofhisthumbonallthecardsheturned.Mr.Peggottywassmokinghispipe.Ifeltitwasatimeforconversationandconfidence.

           ‘Mr.Peggotty!’saysI.

           ‘Sir,’sayshe.

           ‘DidyougiveyoursonthenameofHam,becauseyoulivedinasortofark?’

           Mr.Peggottyseemedtothinkitadeepidea,butanswered:

           ‘No,sir.Inevergivhimnoname.’

           ‘Whogavehimthatname,then?’saidI,puttingquestionnumbertwoofthecatechismtoMr.Peggotty.

           ‘Why,sir,hisfathergivithim,’saidMr.Peggotty.

           ‘Ithoughtyouwerehisfather!’

           ‘MybrotherJoewashisfather,’saidMr.Peggotty.

           ‘Dead,Mr.Peggotty?’Ihinted,afterarespectfulpause.

           ‘Drowndead,’saidMr.Peggotty.

           IwasverymuchsurprisedthatMr.PeggottywasnotHam’sfather,andbegantowonderwhetherIwasmistakenabouthisrelationshiptoanybodyelsethere.Iwassocurioustoknow,thatImadeupmymindtohaveitoutwithMr.Peggotty.

           ‘LittleEm’ly,’Isaid,glancingather.‘Sheisyourdaughter,isn’tshe,Mr.Peggotty?’

           ‘No,sir.

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