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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 292/820
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‘
I
was
obliged
to
announce
myself
,
somehow
,
’
I
replied
.
‘
Have
I
called
you
down
from
the
stars
?
’
‘
No
,
’
he
answered
.
‘
No
.
’
‘
Up
from
anywhere
,
then
?
’
said
I
,
taking
my
seat
near
him
.
‘
I
was
looking
at
the
pictures
in
the
fire
,
’
he
returned
.
‘
But
you
are
spoiling
them
for
me
,
’
said
I
,
as
he
stirred
it
quickly
with
a
piece
of
burning
wood
,
striking
out
of
it
a
train
of
red
-
hot
sparks
that
went
careering
up
the
little
chimney
,
and
roaring
out
into
the
air
.
‘
You
would
not
have
seen
them
,
’
he
returned
.
‘
I
detest
this
mongrel
time
,
neither
day
nor
night
.
How
late
you
are
!
Where
have
you
been
?
’
‘
I
have
been
taking
leave
of
my
usual
walk
,
’
said
I
.
‘
And
I
have
been
sitting
here
,
’
said
Steerforth
,
glancing
round
the
room
,
‘
thinking
that
all
the
people
we
found
so
glad
on
the
night
of
our
coming
down
,
might
—
to
judge
from
the
present
wasted
air
of
the
place
—
be
dispersed
,
or
dead
,
or
come
to
I
don
’
t
know
what
harm
.
David
,
I
wish
to
God
I
had
had
a
judicious
father
these
last
twenty
years
!
’
‘
My
dear
Steerforth
,
what
is
the
matter
?
’
‘
I
wish
with
all
my
soul
I
had
been
better
guided
!
’
he
exclaimed
.
