Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           Theseprovisionslaidin,wewentonthroughagreatnoiseanduproarthatconfusedmywearyheadbeyonddescription,andoverabridgewhich,nodoubt,wasLondonBridge(indeedIthinkhetoldmeso,butIwashalfasleep),untilwecametothepoorperson’shouse,whichwasapartofsomealms-houses,asIknewbytheirlook,andbyaninscriptiononastoneoverthegatewhichsaidtheywereestablishedfortwenty-fivepoorwomen.

           TheMasteratSalemHouseliftedthelatchofoneofanumberoflittleblackdoorsthatwereallalike,andhadeachalittlediamond-panedwindowononeside,andanotherlittlediamond-panedwindowabove;andwewentintothelittlehouseofoneofthesepooroldwomen,whowasblowingafiretomakealittlesaucepanboil.Onseeingthemasterenter,theoldwomanstoppedwiththebellowsonherknee,andsaidsomethingthatIthoughtsoundedlike‘MyCharley!’butonseeingmecomeintoo,shegotup,andrubbingherhandsmadeaconfusedsortofhalfcurtsey.

           ‘Canyoucookthisyounggentleman’sbreakfastforhim,ifyouplease?’saidtheMasteratSalemHouse.

           ‘CanI?’saidtheoldwoman.‘YescanI,sure!’

           ‘How’sMrs.Fibbitsontoday?’saidtheMaster,lookingatanotheroldwomaninalargechairbythefire,whowassuchabundleofclothesthatIfeelgratefultothishourfornothavingsatuponherbymistake.

           ‘Ah,she’spoorly,’saidthefirstoldwoman.‘It’soneofherbaddays.

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