Дэвид Копперфильд

My ‘First Half’ at Salem House

           

           ‘Thereisnotime,’answeredMr.Mell,rising,‘likethepresent.’

           ‘Sir,toyou!’saidMr.Creakle.

           ‘Itakemyleaveofyou,Mr.Creakle,andallofyou,’saidMr.Mell,glancingroundtheroom,andagainpattingmegentlyontheshoulders.‘JamesSteerforth,thebestwishIcanleaveyouisthatyoumaycometobeashamedofwhatyouhavedonetoday.AtpresentIwouldprefertoseeyouanythingratherthanafriend,tome,ortoanyoneinwhomIfeelaninterest.’

           Oncemorehelaidhishanduponmyshoulder;andthentakinghisfluteandafewbooksfromhisdesk,andleavingthekeyinitforhissuccessor,hewentoutoftheschool,withhispropertyunderhisarm.Mr.Creaklethenmadeaspeech,throughTungay,inwhichhethankedSteerforthforasserting(thoughperhapstoowarmly)theindependenceandrespectabilityofSalemHouse;andwhichhewoundupbyshakinghandswithSteerforth,whilewegavethreecheersIdidnotquiteknowwhatfor,butIsupposedforSteerforth,andsojoinedinthemardently,thoughIfeltmiserable.Mr.CreaklethencanedTommyTraddlesforbeingdiscoveredintears,insteadofcheers,onaccountofMr.Mell’sdeparture;andwentbacktohissofa,orhisbed,orwhereverhehadcomefrom.

           Wewerelefttoourselvesnow,andlookedveryblank,Irecollect,ononeanother.

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