Дэвид Копперфильд

My ‘First Half’ at Salem House

           Acloggysensationofthelukewarmfatofmeatisuponme(wedinedanhourortwoago),andmyheadisasheavyassomuchlead.Iwouldgivetheworldtogotosleep.IsitwithmyeyeonMr.Creakle,blinkingathimlikeayoungowl;whensleepoverpowersmeforaminute,hestillloomsthroughmyslumber,rulingthoseciphering-books,untilhesoftlycomesbehindmeandwakesmetoplainerperceptionofhim,witharedridgeacrossmyback.

           HereIamintheplayground,withmyeyestillfascinatedbyhim,thoughIcan’tseehim.ThewindowatalittledistancefromwhichIknowheishavinghisdinner,standsforhim,andIeyethatinstead.Ifheshowshisfacenearit,mineassumesanimploringandsubmissiveexpression.Ifhelooksoutthroughtheglass,theboldestboy(Steerforthexcepted)stopsinthemiddleofashoutoryell,andbecomescontemplative.Oneday,Traddles(themostunfortunateboyintheworld)breaksthatwindowaccidentally,withaball.Ishudderatthismomentwiththetremendoussensationofseeingitdone,andfeelingthattheballhasboundedontoMr.Creakle’ssacredhead.

           PoorTraddles!Inatightsky-bluesuitthatmadehisarmsandlegslikeGermansausages,orroly-polypuddings,hewasthemerriestandmostmiserableofalltheboys.HewasalwaysbeingcanedIthinkhewascanedeverydaythathalf-year,exceptoneholidayMondaywhenhewasonlyruler’donbothhandsandwasalwaysgoingtowritetohisuncleaboutit,andneverdid.

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