Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           OveradoorinthiswallwasaboardwithSALEMHOUSEuponit;andthroughagratinginthisdoorweweresurveyedwhenwerangthebellbyasurlyface,whichIfound,onthedoorbeingopened,belongedtoastoutmanwithabull-neck,awoodenleg,overhangingtemples,andhishaircutcloseallroundhishead.

           ‘Thenewboy,’saidtheMaster.

           Themanwiththewoodenlegeyedmealloveritdidn’ttakelong,fortherewasnotmuchofmeandlockedthegatebehindus,andtookoutthekey.Weweregoinguptothehouse,amongsomedarkheavytrees,whenhecalledaftermyconductor.‘Hallo!’

           Welookedback,andhewasstandingatthedoorofalittlelodge,wherehelived,withapairofbootsinhishand.

           ‘Here!Thecobbler’sbeen,’hesaid,‘sinceyou’vebeenout,Mr.Mell,andhesayshecan’tmend‘emanymore.Hesaysthereain’tabitoftheoriginalbootleft,andhewondersyouexpectit.’

           WiththesewordshethrewthebootstowardsMr.Mell,whowentbackafewpacestopickthemup,andlookedatthem(verydisconsolately,Iwasafraid),aswewentontogether.Iobservedthen,forthefirsttime,thatthebootshehadonwereagooddealtheworseforwear,andthathisstockingwasjustbreakingoutinoneplace,likeabud.

           SalemHousewasasquarebrickbuildingwithwings;ofabareandunfurnishedappearance.Allaboutitwassoveryquiet,thatIsaidtoMr.

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