Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           ButthereIwas;andsoonIwasatourhouse,wherethebareoldelm-treeswrungtheirmanyhandsinthebleakwintryair,andshredsoftheoldrooks’-nestsdriftedawayuponthewind.

           Thecarrierputmyboxdownatthegarden-gate,andleftme.Iwalkedalongthepathtowardsthehouse,glancingatthewindows,andfearingateverysteptoseeMr.MurdstoneorMissMurdstoneloweringoutofoneofthem.Nofaceappeared,however;andbeingcometothehouse,andknowinghowtoopenthedoor,beforedark,withoutknocking,Iwentinwithaquiet,timidstep.

           Godknowshowinfantinethememorymayhavebeen,thatwasawakenedwithinmebythesoundofmymother’svoiceintheoldparlour,whenIsetfootinthehall.Shewassinginginalowtone.IthinkImusthavelaininherarms,andheardhersingingsotomewhenIwasbutababy.Thestrainwasnewtome,andyetitwassooldthatitfilledmyheartbrim-full;likeafriendcomebackfromalongabsence.

           Ibelieved,fromthesolitaryandthoughtfulwayinwhichmymothermurmuredhersong,thatshewasalone.AndIwentsoftlyintotheroom.Shewassittingbythefire,sucklinganinfant,whosetinyhandsheheldagainstherneck.Hereyeswerelookingdownuponitsface,andshesatsingingtoit.Iwassofarright,thatshehadnoothercompanion.

           Ispoketoher,andshestarted,andcriedout.

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