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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 202/820
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‘
No
,
Trot
,
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
He
keeps
an
office
.
’
I
asked
for
no
more
information
about
Mr
.
Wickfield
,
as
she
offered
none
,
and
we
conversed
on
other
subjects
until
we
came
to
Canterbury
,
where
,
as
it
was
market
-
day
,
my
aunt
had
a
great
opportunity
of
insinuating
the
grey
pony
among
carts
,
baskets
,
vegetables
,
and
huckster
’
s
goods
.
The
hair
-
breadth
turns
and
twists
we
made
,
drew
down
upon
us
a
variety
of
speeches
from
the
people
standing
about
,
which
were
not
always
complimentary
;
but
my
aunt
drove
on
with
perfect
indifference
,
and
I
dare
say
would
have
taken
her
own
way
with
as
much
coolness
through
an
enemy
’
s
country
.
At
length
we
stopped
before
a
very
old
house
bulging
out
over
the
road
;
a
house
with
long
low
lattice
-
windows
bulging
out
still
farther
,
and
beams
with
carved
heads
on
the
ends
bulging
out
too
,
so
that
I
fancied
the
whole
house
was
leaning
forward
,
trying
to
see
who
was
passing
on
the
narrow
pavement
below
.
It
was
quite
spotless
in
its
cleanliness
.
The
old
-
fashioned
brass
knocker
on
the
low
arched
door
,
ornamented
with
carved
garlands
of
fruit
and
flowers
,
twinkled
like
a
star
;
the
two
stone
steps
descending
to
the
door
were
as
white
as
if
they
had
been
covered
with
fair
linen
;
and
all
the
angles
and
corners
,
and
carvings
and
mouldings
,
and
quaint
little
panes
of
glass
,
and
quainter
little
windows
,
though
as
old
as
the
hills
,
were
as
pure
as
any
snow
that
ever
fell
upon
the
hills
.
When
the
pony
-
chaise
stopped
at
the
door
,
and
my
eyes
were
intent
upon
the
house
,
I
saw
a
cadaverous
face
appear
at
a
small
window
on
the
ground
floor
(
in
a
little
round
tower
that
formed
one
side
of
the
house
)
,
and
quickly
disappear
.
The
low
arched
door
then
opened
,
and
the
face
came
out
.
It
was
quite
as
cadaverous
as
it
had
looked
in
the
window
,
though
in
the
grain
of
it
there
was
that
tinge
of
red
which
is
sometimes
to
be
observed
in
the
skins
of
red
-
haired
people
.
It
belonged
to
a
red
-
haired
person
—
a
youth
of
fifteen
,
as
I
take
it
now
,
but
looking
much
older
—
whose
hair
was
cropped
as
close
as
the
closest
stubble
;
who
had
hardly
any
eyebrows
,
and
no
eyelashes
,
and
eyes
of
a
red
-
brown
,
so
unsheltered
and
unshaded
,
that
I
remember
wondering
how
he
went
to
sleep
.
He
was
high
-
shouldered
and
bony
;
dressed
in
decent
black
,
with
a
white
wisp
of
a
neckcloth
;
buttoned
up
to
the
throat
;
and
had
a
long
,
lank
,
skeleton
hand
,
which
particularly
attracted
my
attention
,
as
he
stood
at
the
pony
’
s
head
,
rubbing
his
chin
with
it
,
and
looking
up
at
us
in
the
chaise
.
‘
Is
Mr
.
Wickfield
at
home
,
Uriah
Heep
?
’
said
my
aunt
.
‘
Mr
.
Wickfield
’
s
at
home
,
ma
’
am
,
’
said
Uriah
Heep
,
‘
if
you
’
ll
please
to
walk
in
there
’
—
pointing
with
his
long
hand
to
the
room
he
meant
.
We
got
out
;
and
leaving
him
to
hold
the
pony
,
went
into
a
long
low
parlour
looking
towards
the
street
,
from
the
window
of
which
I
caught
a
glimpse
,
as
I
went
in
,
of
Uriah
Heep
breathing
into
the
pony
’
s
nostrils
,
and
immediately
covering
them
with
his
hand
,
as
if
he
were
putting
some
spell
upon
him
.
Opposite
to
the
tall
old
chimney
-
piece
were
two
portraits
:
one
of
a
gentleman
with
grey
hair
(
though
not
by
any
means
an
old
man
)
and
black
eyebrows
,
who
was
looking
over
some
papers
tied
together
with
red
tape
;
the
other
,
of
a
lady
,
with
a
very
placid
and
sweet
expression
of
face
,
who
was
looking
at
me
.
I
believe
I
was
turning
about
in
search
of
Uriah
’
s
picture
,
when
,
a
door
at
the
farther
end
of
the
room
opening
,
a
gentleman
entered
,
at
sight
of
whom
I
turned
to
the
first
-
mentioned
portrait
again
,
to
make
quite
sure
that
it
had
not
come
out
of
its
frame
.
But
it
was
stationary
;
and
as
the
gentleman
advanced
into
the
light
,
I
saw
that
he
was
some
years
older
than
when
he
had
had
his
picture
painted
.
‘
Miss
Betsey
Trotwood
,
’
said
the
gentleman
,
‘
pray
walk
in
.
I
was
engaged
for
a
moment
,
but
you
’
ll
excuse
my
being
busy
.
You
know
my
motive
.
I
have
but
one
in
life
.
’
