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Главная
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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Дэвид Копперфильд
-
- Стр. 368/820
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‘
You
were
brought
up
by
an
uncle
,
then
?
’
said
I
.
‘
Of
course
I
was
!
’
said
Traddles
.
‘
The
one
I
was
always
going
to
write
to
.
And
always
didn
’
t
,
eh
!
Ha
,
ha
,
ha
!
Yes
,
I
had
an
uncle
then
.
He
died
soon
after
I
left
school
.
’
‘
Indeed
!
’
‘
Yes
.
He
was
a
retired
—
what
do
you
call
it
!
—
draper
—
cloth
-
merchant
—
and
had
made
me
his
heir
.
But
he
didn
’
t
like
me
when
I
grew
up
.
’
‘
Do
you
really
mean
that
?
’
said
I
.
He
was
so
composed
,
that
I
fancied
he
must
have
some
other
meaning
.
‘
Oh
dear
,
yes
,
Copperfield
!
I
mean
it
,
’
replied
Traddles
.
‘
It
was
an
unfortunate
thing
,
but
he
didn
’
t
like
me
at
all
.
He
said
I
wasn
’
t
at
all
what
he
expected
,
and
so
he
married
his
housekeeper
.
’
‘
And
what
did
you
do
?
’
I
asked
.
‘
I
didn
’
t
do
anything
in
particular
,
’
said
Traddles
.
‘
I
lived
with
them
,
waiting
to
be
put
out
in
the
world
,
until
his
gout
unfortunately
flew
to
his
stomach
—
and
so
he
died
,
and
so
she
married
a
young
man
,
and
so
I
wasn
’
t
provided
for
.
’
‘
Did
you
get
nothing
,
Traddles
,
after
all
?
’
