Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           

           ‘Oh!’saidMissMurdstone.‘Thenhere’sonedayoff.’

           Shekeptacalendaroftheholidaysinthisway,andeverymorningcheckedadayoffinexactlythesamemanner.Shediditgloomilyuntilshecametoten,butwhenshegotintotwofiguresshebecamemorehopeful,and,asthetimeadvanced,evenjocular.

           ItwasonthisveryfirstdaythatIhadthemisfortunetothrowher,thoughshewasnotsubjecttosuchweaknessingeneral,intoastateofviolentconsternation.Icameintotheroomwheresheandmymotherweresitting;andthebaby(whowasonlyafewweeksold)beingonmymother’slap,Itookitverycarefullyinmyarms.SuddenlyMissMurdstonegavesuchascreamthatIallbutdroppedit.

           ‘MydearJane!’criedmymother.

           ‘Goodheavens,Clara,doyousee?’exclaimedMissMurdstone.

           ‘Seewhat,mydearJane?’saidmymother;‘where?’

           ‘He’sgotit!’criedMissMurdstone.‘Theboyhasgotthebaby!’

           Shewaslimpwithhorror;butstiffenedherselftomakeadartatme,andtakeitoutofmyarms.Then,sheturnedfaint;andwassoveryillthattheywereobligedtogivehercherrybrandy.Iwassolemnlyinterdictedbyher,onherrecovery,fromtouchingmybrotheranymoreonanypretencewhatever;andmypoormother,who,Icouldsee,wishedotherwise,meeklyconfirmedtheinterdict,bysaying:‘Nodoubtyouareright,mydearJane.

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