-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Дэвид Копперфильд
-
- Стр. 459/820
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
My
aunt
went
on
with
a
quiet
enjoyment
,
in
which
there
was
very
little
affectation
,
if
any
;
drinking
the
warm
ale
with
a
tea
-
spoon
,
and
soaking
her
strips
of
toast
in
it
.
‘
Trot
,
’
said
she
,
‘
I
don
’
t
care
for
strange
faces
in
general
,
but
I
rather
like
that
Barkis
of
yours
,
do
you
know
!
’
‘
It
’
s
better
than
a
hundred
pounds
to
hear
you
say
so
!
’
said
I
.
‘
It
’
s
a
most
extraordinary
world
,
’
observed
my
aunt
,
rubbing
her
nose
;
‘
how
that
woman
ever
got
into
it
with
that
name
,
is
unaccountable
to
me
.
It
would
be
much
more
easy
to
be
born
a
Jackson
,
or
something
of
that
sort
,
one
would
think
.
’
‘
Perhaps
she
thinks
so
,
too
;
it
’
s
not
her
fault
,
’
said
I
.
‘
I
suppose
not
,
’
returned
my
aunt
,
rather
grudging
the
admission
;
‘
but
it
’
s
very
aggravating
.
However
,
she
’
s
Barkis
now
.
That
’
s
some
comfort
.
Barkis
is
uncommonly
fond
of
you
,
Trot
.
’
‘
There
is
nothing
she
would
leave
undone
to
prove
it
,
’
said
I
.
‘
Nothing
,
I
believe
,
’
returned
my
aunt
.
‘
Here
,
the
poor
fool
has
been
begging
and
praying
about
handing
over
some
of
her
money
—
because
she
has
got
too
much
of
it
.
A
simpleton
!
’
My
aunt
’
s
tears
of
pleasure
were
positively
trickling
down
into
the
warm
ale
.
