Дэвид Копперфильд

Another Retrospect

           Iseemtohavebeencarryingthelicenceabout,inmypocket,manymonths.

           Nextday,too,whenweallgoinaflocktoseethehouse—ourhouse—Dora’sandmine—Iamquiteunabletoregardmyselfasitsmaster.Iseemtobethere,bypermissionofsomebodyelse.Ihalfexpecttherealmastertocomehomepresently,andsayheisgladtoseeme.Suchabeautifullittlehouseasitis,witheverythingsobrightandnew;withtheflowersonthecarpetslookingasiffreshlygathered,andthegreenleavesonthepaperasiftheyhadjustcomeout;withthespotlessmuslincurtains,andtheblushingrose-colouredfurniture,andDora’sgardenhatwiththeblueribbon—doIremember,now,howIlovedherinsuchanotherhatwhenIfirstknewher!—alreadyhangingonitslittlepeg;theguitar-casequiteathomeonitsheelsinacorner;andeverybodytumblingoverJip’spagoda,whichismuchtoobigfortheestablishment.Anotherhappyevening,quiteasunrealasalltherestofit,andIstealintotheusualroombeforegoingaway.Doraisnotthere.Isupposetheyhavenotdonetryingonyet.MissLaviniapeepsin,andtellsmemysteriouslythatshewillnotbelong.Sheisratherlong,notwithstanding;butbyandbyIheararustlingatthedoor,andsomeonetaps.

           Isay,‘Comein!’butsomeonetapsagain.

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