Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           Ifthefirewastogoout,throughanyaccident,Iverilybelieveshe’dgoouttoo,andnevercometolifeagain.’

           Astheylookedather,Ilookedatheralso.Althoughitwasawarmday,sheseemedtothinkofnothingbutthefire.Ifanciedshewasjealousevenofthesaucepanonit;andIhavereasontoknowthatshetookitsimpressmentintotheserviceofboilingmyeggandbroilingmybacon,indudgeon;forIsawher,withmyowndiscomfitedeyes,shakeherfistatmeonce,whenthoseculinaryoperationsweregoingon,andnooneelsewaslooking.Thesunstreamedinatthelittlewindow,butshesatwithherownbackandthebackofthelargechairtowardsit,screeningthefireasifsheweresedulouslykeepingITwarm,insteadofitkeepingherwarm,andwatchingitinamostdistrustfulmanner.Thecompletionofthepreparationsformybreakfast,byrelievingthefire,gavehersuchextremejoythatshelaughedaloudandaveryunmelodiouslaughshehad,Imustsay.

           Isatdowntomybrownloaf,myegg,andmyrasherofbacon,withabasinofmilkbesides,andmadeamostdeliciousmeal.WhileIwasyetinthefullenjoymentofit,theoldwomanofthehousesaidtotheMaster:

           ‘Haveyougotyourflutewithyou?’

           ‘Yes,’hereturned.

           ‘Haveablowatit,’saidtheoldwoman,coaxingly.

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