Дэвид Копперфильд

I Assist at an Explosion

           Itrustthatthelabourandhazardofaninvestigation—ofwhichthesmallestresultshavebeenslowlypiecedtogether,inthepressureofarduousavocations,undergrindingpenuriousapprehensions,atriseofmorn,atdewyeve,intheshadowsofnight,underthewatchfuleyeofonewhomitweresuperfluoustocallDemon—combinedwiththestruggleofparentalPovertytoturnit,whencompleted,totherightaccount,maybeasthesprinklingofafewdropsofsweetwateronmyfuneralpyre.Iasknomore.Letitbe,injustice,merelysaidofme,asofagallantandeminentnavalHero,withwhomIhavenopretensionstocope,thatwhatIhavedone,Idid,indespiteofmercenaryandselfishobjects,

           ForEngland,home,andBeauty.

           ‘“Remainingalways,&c.&c.,WILKINSMICAWBER.”’

           Muchaffected,butstillintenselyenjoyinghimself,Mr.Micawberfoldeduphisletter,andhandeditwithabowtomyaunt,assomethingshemightliketokeep.

           Therewas,asIhadnoticedonmyfirstvisitlongago,anironsafeintheroom.Thekeywasinit.AhastysuspicionseemedtostrikeUriah;and,withaglanceatMr.Micawber,hewenttoit,andthrewthedoorsclankingopen.Itwasempty.

           ‘Wherearethebooks?’hecried,withafrightfulface.‘Somethiefhasstolenthebooks!’

           Mr.Micawbertappedhimselfwiththeruler.‘Idid,whenIgotthekeyfromyouasusual—butalittleearlierandopeneditthismorning.

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