Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           Itappearedtomychildishfancy,asIascendedtothebedroomwhereIhadbeenimprisoned,thattheybroughtacoldblastofairintothehousewhichblewawaytheoldfamiliarfeelinglikeafeather.

           Ifeltuncomfortableaboutgoingdowntobreakfastinthemorning,asIhadneverseteyesonMr.MurdstonesincethedaywhenIcommittedmymemorableoffence.However,asitmustbedone,Iwentdown,aftertwoorthreefalsestartshalf-way,andasmanyrunsbackontiptoetomyownroom,andpresentedmyselfintheparlour.

           Hewasstandingbeforethefirewithhisbacktoit,whileMissMurdstonemadethetea.HelookedatmesteadilyasIentered,butmadenosignofrecognitionwhatever.Iwentuptohim,afteramomentofconfusion,andsaid:‘Ibegyourpardon,sir.IamverysorryforwhatIdid,andIhopeyouwillforgiveme.’

           ‘Iamgladtohearyouaresorry,David,’hereplied.

           ThehandhegavemewasthehandIhadbitten.Icouldnotrestrainmyeyefromrestingforaninstantonaredspotuponit;butitwasnotsoredasIturned,whenImetthatsinisterexpressioninhisface.

           ‘Howdoyoudo,ma’am?’IsaidtoMissMurdstone.

           ‘Ah,dearme!’sighedMissMurdstone,givingmethetea-caddyscoopinsteadofherfingers.‘Howlongaretheholidays?’

           ‘Amonth,ma’am.’

           ‘Countingfromwhen?’

           ‘Fromtoday,ma’am.

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