Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           Itwasnorelieftoturnroundandfindnobody;forwherevermybackwas,thereIimaginedsomebodyalwaystobe.Thatcruelmanwiththewoodenlegaggravatedmysufferings.Hewasinauthority;andifheeversawmeleaningagainstatree,orawall,orthehouse,heroaredoutfromhislodgedoorinastupendousvoice,‘Hallo,yousir!YouCopperfield!Showthatbadgeconspicuous,orI’llreportyou!’Theplaygroundwasabaregravelledyard,opentoallthebackofthehouseandtheoffices;andIknewthattheservantsreadit,andthebutcherreadit,andthebakerreadit;thateverybody,inaword,whocamebackwardsandforwardstothehouse,ofamorningwhenIwasorderedtowalkthere,readthatIwastobetakencareof,forIbit,IrecollectthatIpositivelybegantohaveadreadofmyself,asakindofwildboywhodidbite.

           Therewasanolddoorinthisplayground,onwhichtheboyshadacustomofcarvingtheirnames.Itwascompletelycoveredwithsuchinscriptions.Inmydreadoftheendofthevacationandtheircomingback,Icouldnotreadaboy’sname,withoutinquiringinwhattoneandwithwhatemphasisHEwouldread,‘Takecareofhim.Hebites.’TherewasoneboyacertainJ.Steerforthwhocuthisnameverydeepandveryoften,who,Iconceived,wouldreaditinaratherstrongvoice,andafterwardspullmyhair.Therewasanotherboy,oneTommyTraddles,whoIdreadedwouldmakegameofit,andpretendtobedreadfullyfrightenedofme.Therewasathird,GeorgeDemple,whoIfanciedwouldsingit.

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