Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           

           ‘It’sapudding,’Imadeanswer.

           ‘Pudding!’heexclaimed.‘Why,blessme,soitis!What!’lookingatitnearer.‘Youdon’tmeantosayit’sabatter-pudding!’

           ‘Yes,itisindeed.’

           ‘Why,abatter-pudding,’hesaid,takingupatable-spoon,‘ismyfavouritepudding!Ain’tthatlucky?Comeon,little‘un,andlet’sseewho’llgetmost.’

           Thewaitercertainlygotmost.Heentreatedmemorethanoncetocomeinandwin,butwhatwithhistable-spoontomytea-spoon,hisdispatchtomydispatch,andhisappetitetomyappetite,Iwasleftfarbehindatthefirstmouthful,andhadnochancewithhim.Ineversawanyoneenjoyapuddingsomuch,Ithink;andhelaughed,whenitwasallgone,asifhisenjoymentofitlastedstill.

           Findinghimsoveryfriendlyandcompanionable,itwasthenthatIaskedforthepenandinkandpaper,towritetoPeggotty.Henotonlybroughtitimmediately,butwasgoodenoughtolookovermewhileIwrotetheletter.WhenIhadfinishedit,heaskedmewhereIwasgoingtoschool.

           Isaid,‘NearLondon,’whichwasallIknew.

           ‘Oh!myeye!’hesaid,lookingverylow-spirited,‘Iamsorryforthat.’

           ‘Why?’Iaskedhim.

           ‘Oh,Lord!’hesaid,shakinghishead,‘that’stheschoolwheretheybroketheboy’sribstworibsalittleboyhewas.

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