Дэвид Копперфильд

I Corroborate Mr. Dick, and Choose a Profession

           Afterhalfanhour’scoolinginthechurchyard,Isawthechariotcomingback.Thedriverstoppedbesideme,andmyauntwassittinginitalone.

           Shehadnotyetsufficientlyrecoveredfromheragitationtobequitepreparedforthevisitwehadtomake.Shedesiredmetogetintothechariot,andtotellthecoachmantodriveslowlyupanddownalittlewhile.Shesaidnomore,except,‘Mydearchild,neveraskmewhatitwas,anddon’trefertoit,’untilshehadperfectlyregainedhercomposure,whenshetoldmeshewasquiteherselfnow,andwemightgetout.Onhergivingmeherpursetopaythedriver,Ifoundthatalltheguineasweregone,andonlytheloosesilverremained.

           Doctors’Commonswasapproachedbyalittlelowarchway.Beforewehadtakenmanypacesdownthestreetbeyondit,thenoiseofthecityseemedtomelt,asifbymagic,intoasofteneddistance.Afewdullcourtsandnarrowwaysbroughtustothesky-lightedofficesofSpenlowandJorkins;inthevestibuleofwhichtemple,accessibletopilgrimswithouttheceremonyofknocking,threeorfourclerkswereatworkascopyists.Oneofthese,alittledryman,sittingbyhimself,whoworeastiffbrownwigthatlookedasifitweremadeofgingerbread,rosetoreceivemyaunt,andshowusintoMr.Spenlow’sroom.

           ‘Mr.Spenlow’sinCourt,ma’am,’saidthedryman;‘it’sanArchesday;butit’scloseby,andI’llsendforhimdirectly.’

           AswewerelefttolookaboutuswhileMr.

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