Дэвид Копперфильд

My ‘First Half’ at Salem House

           

           Iblushedattheidea,andbeggedhim,inmymodesty,nottothinkofit.ButhesaidhehadobservedIwassometimeshoarsealittleroopywashisexactexpressionanditshouldbe,everydrop,devotedtothepurposehehadmentioned.Accordingly,itwaslockedupinhisbox,anddrawnoffbyhimselfinaphial,andadministeredtomethroughapieceofquillinthecork,whenIwassupposedtobeinwantofarestorative.Sometimes,tomakeitamoresovereignspecific,hewassokindastosqueezeorangejuiceintoit,ortostiritupwithginger,ordissolveapeppermintdropinit;andalthoughIcannotassertthattheflavourwasimprovedbytheseexperiments,orthatitwasexactlythecompoundonewouldhavechosenforastomachic,thelastthingatnightandthefirstthinginthemorning,Idrankitgratefullyandwasverysensibleofhisattention.

           Weseem,tome,tohavebeenmonthsoverPeregrine,andmonthsmoreovertheotherstories.Theinstitutionneverflaggedforwantofastory,Iamcertain;andthewinelastedoutalmostaswellasthematter.PoorTraddlesIneverthinkofthatboybutwithastrangedispositiontolaugh,andwithtearsinmyeyeswasasortofchorus,ingeneral;andaffectedtobeconvulsedwithmirthatthecomicparts,andtobeovercomewithfearwhentherewasanypassageofanalarmingcharacterinthenarrative.Thisratherputmeout,veryoften.

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