Дэвид Копперфильд

A Little Cold Water

           

           Afterteawehadtheguitar;andDorasangthosesamedearoldFrenchsongsabouttheimpossibilityofeveronanyaccountleavingoffdancing,Larala,Larala,untilIfeltamuchgreaterMonsterthanbefore.

           Wehadonlyonechecktoourpleasure,andthathappenedalittlewhilebeforeItookmyleave,when,MissMillschancingtomakesomeallusiontotomorrowmorning,Iunluckilyletoutthat,beingobligedtoexertmyselfnow,Igotupatfiveo’clock.WhetherDorahadanyideathatIwasaPrivateWatchman,Iamunabletosay;butitmadeagreatimpressiononher,andsheneitherplayednorsanganymore.

           ItwasstillonhermindwhenIbadeheradieu;andshesaidtome,inherprettycoaxingwayasifIwereadoll,Iusedtothink:

           ‘Nowdon’tgetupatfiveo’clock,younaughtyboy.It’ssononsensical!’

           ‘Mylove,’saidI,‘Ihaveworktodo.’

           ‘Butdon’tdoit!’returnedDora.‘Whyshouldyou?’

           Itwasimpossibletosaytothatsweetlittlesurprisedface,otherwisethanlightlyandplayfully,thatwemustworktolive.

           ‘Oh!Howridiculous!’criedDora.

           ‘Howshallwelivewithout,Dora?’saidI.

           ‘How?Anyhow!’saidDora

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Roboto Lora
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