Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           Ilabourunderthesamekindofastonishmenttothisday,havinginvariablyobservedthatofallhumanweaknesses,theonetowhichourcommonnatureistheleastdisposedtoconfess(Icannotimaginewhy)istheweaknessofhavinggonetosleepinacoach.

           WhatanamazingplaceLondonwastomewhenIsawitinthedistance,andhowIbelievedalltheadventuresofallmyfavouriteheroestobeconstantlyenactingandre-enactingthere,andhowIvaguelymadeitoutinmyownmindtobefullerofwondersandwickednessthanallthecitiesoftheearth,Ineednotstopheretorelate.Weapproacheditbydegrees,andgot,induetime,totheinnintheWhitechapeldistrict,forwhichwewerebound.IforgetwhetheritwastheBlueBull,ortheBlueBoar;butIknowitwastheBlueSomething,andthatitslikenesswaspainteduponthebackofthecoach.

           Theguard’seyelightedonmeashewasgettingdown,andhesaidatthebooking-officedoor:

           ‘IsthereanybodyhereforayoongsterbookedinthenameofMurdstone,fromBloonderstone,Sooffolk,tobelefttillcalledfor?’

           Nobodyanswered.

           ‘TryCopperfield,ifyouplease,sir,’saidI,lookinghelplesslydown.

           ‘Isthereanybodyhereforayoongster,bookedinthenameofMurdstone,fromBloonderstone,Sooffolk,butowningtothenameofCopperfield,tobelefttillcalledfor?’saidtheguard.‘Come!ISthereanybody?’

           No.Therewasnobody.

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