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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 188/820
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‘
Not
a
morsel
,
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
Oh
,
indeed
!
’
I
observed
faintly
.
‘
If
there
is
anything
in
the
world
,
’
said
my
aunt
,
with
great
decision
and
force
of
manner
,
‘
that
Mr
.
Dick
is
not
,
it
’
s
that
.
’
I
had
nothing
better
to
offer
,
than
another
timid
,
‘
Oh
,
indeed
!
’
‘
He
has
been
CALLED
mad
,
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
I
have
a
selfish
pleasure
in
saying
he
has
been
called
mad
,
or
I
should
not
have
had
the
benefit
of
his
society
and
advice
for
these
last
ten
years
and
upwards
—
in
fact
,
ever
since
your
sister
,
Betsey
Trotwood
,
disappointed
me
.
’
‘
So
long
as
that
?
’
I
said
.
‘
And
nice
people
they
were
,
who
had
the
audacity
to
call
him
mad
,
’
pursued
my
aunt
.
‘
Mr
.
Dick
is
a
sort
of
distant
connexion
of
mine
-
it
doesn
’
t
matter
how
;
I
needn
’
t
enter
into
that
.
If
it
hadn
’
t
been
for
me
,
his
own
brother
would
have
shut
him
up
for
life
.
That
’
s
all
.
’
I
am
afraid
it
was
hypocritical
in
me
,
but
seeing
that
my
aunt
felt
strongly
on
the
subject
,
I
tried
to
look
as
if
I
felt
strongly
too
.
‘
A
proud
fool
!
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
Because
his
brother
was
a
little
eccentric
—
though
he
is
not
half
so
eccentric
as
a
good
many
people
—
he
didn
’
t
like
to
have
him
visible
about
his
house
,
and
sent
him
away
to
some
private
asylum
-
place
:
though
he
had
been
left
to
his
particular
care
by
their
deceased
father
,
who
thought
him
almost
a
natural
.
And
a
wise
man
he
must
have
been
to
think
so
!
Mad
himself
,
no
doubt
.
’
