Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           Thisdidnotsavemefrommorejokes,either;forahusky-voicedgentlemanwitharoughface,whohadbeeneatingoutofasandwich-boxnearlyalltheway,exceptwhenhehadbeendrinkingoutofabottle,saidIwaslikeaboa-constrictorwhotookenoughatonemealtolasthimalongtime;afterwhich,heactuallybroughtarashoutuponhimselfwithboiledbeef.

           WehadstartedfromYarmouthatthreeo’clockintheafternoon,andweweredueinLondonabouteightnextmorning.ItwasMid-summerweather,andtheeveningwasverypleasant.Whenwepassedthroughavillage,Ipicturedtomyselfwhattheinsidesofthehouseswerelike,andwhattheinhabitantswereabout;andwhenboyscamerunningafterus,andgotupbehindandswungthereforalittleway,Iwonderedwhethertheirfatherswerealive,andwhethertheyWerehappyathome.Ihadplentytothinkof,therefore,besidesmymindrunningcontinuallyonthekindofplaceIwasgoingtowhichwasanawfulspeculation.Sometimes,Iremember,IresignedmyselftothoughtsofhomeandPeggotty;andtoendeavouring,inaconfusedblindway,torecallhowIhadfelt,andwhatsortofboyIusedtobe,beforeIbitMr.Murdstone:whichIcouldn’tsatisfymyselfaboutbyanymeans,Iseemedtohavebittenhiminsucharemoteantiquity.

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