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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 458/820
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‘
Keep
that
,
in
case
of
sickness
,
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
We
mustn
’
t
use
it
carelessly
,
Trot
.
Ale
for
me
.
Half
a
pint
.
’
I
thought
Mr
.
Dick
would
have
fallen
,
insensible
.
My
aunt
being
resolute
,
I
went
out
and
got
the
ale
myself
.
As
it
was
growing
late
,
Peggotty
and
Mr
.
Dick
took
that
opportunity
of
repairing
to
the
chandler
’
s
shop
together
.
I
parted
from
him
,
poor
fellow
,
at
the
corner
of
the
street
,
with
his
great
kite
at
his
back
,
a
very
monument
of
human
misery
.
My
aunt
was
walking
up
and
down
the
room
when
I
returned
,
crimping
the
borders
of
her
nightcap
with
her
fingers
.
I
warmed
the
ale
and
made
the
toast
on
the
usual
infallible
principles
.
When
it
was
ready
for
her
,
she
was
ready
for
it
,
with
her
nightcap
on
,
and
the
skirt
of
her
gown
turned
back
on
her
knees
.
‘
My
dear
,
’
said
my
aunt
,
after
taking
a
spoonful
of
it
;
‘
it
’
s
a
great
deal
better
than
wine
.
Not
half
so
bilious
.
’
I
suppose
I
looked
doubtful
,
for
she
added
:
‘
Tut
,
tut
,
child
.
If
nothing
worse
than
Ale
happens
to
us
,
we
are
well
off
.
’
‘
I
should
think
so
myself
,
aunt
,
I
am
sure
,
’
said
I
.
‘
Well
,
then
,
why
DON
’
T
you
think
so
?
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
Because
you
and
I
are
very
different
people
,
’
I
returned
.
‘
Stuff
and
nonsense
,
Trot
!
’
replied
my
aunt
.
