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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 302/820
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I
said
that
I
congratulated
myself
on
having
the
honour
to
make
hers
,
and
that
the
happiness
was
mutual
.
‘
Oh
,
my
goodness
,
how
polite
we
are
!
’
exclaimed
Miss
Mowcher
,
making
a
preposterous
attempt
to
cover
her
large
face
with
her
morsel
of
a
hand
.
‘
What
a
world
of
gammon
and
spinnage
it
is
,
though
,
ain
’
t
it
!
’
This
was
addressed
confidentially
to
both
of
us
,
as
the
morsel
of
a
hand
came
away
from
the
face
,
and
buried
itself
,
arm
and
all
,
in
the
bag
again
.
‘
What
do
you
mean
,
Miss
Mowcher
?
’
said
Steerforth
.
‘
Ha
!
ha
!
ha
!
What
a
refreshing
set
of
humbugs
we
are
,
to
be
sure
,
ain
’
t
we
,
my
sweet
child
?
’
replied
that
morsel
of
a
woman
,
feeling
in
the
bag
with
her
head
on
one
side
and
her
eye
in
the
air
.
‘
Look
here
!
’
taking
something
out
.
‘
Scraps
of
the
Russian
Prince
’
s
nails
.
Prince
Alphabet
turned
topsy
-
turvy
,
I
call
him
,
for
his
name
’
s
got
all
the
letters
in
it
,
higgledy
-
piggledy
.
’
‘
The
Russian
Prince
is
a
client
of
yours
,
is
he
?
’
said
Steerforth
.
‘
I
believe
you
,
my
pet
,
’
replied
Miss
Mowcher
.
‘
I
keep
his
nails
in
order
for
him
.
Twice
a
week
!
Fingers
and
toes
.
’
‘
He
pays
well
,
I
hope
?
’
said
Steerforth
.
‘
Pays
,
as
he
speaks
,
my
dear
child
—
through
the
nose
,
’
replied
Miss
Mowcher
.
‘
None
of
your
close
shavers
the
Prince
ain
’
t
.
You
’
d
say
so
,
if
you
saw
his
moustachios
.
Red
by
nature
,
black
by
art
.
’
