Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           

           Onanotheroccasion,whenwethreeweretogether,thissamedearbabyitwastrulydeartome,forourmother’ssakewastheinnocentoccasionofMissMurdstone’sgoingintoapassion.Mymother,whohadbeenlookingatitseyesasitlayuponherlap,said:

           ‘Davy!comehere!’andlookedatmine.

           IsawMissMurdstonelayherbeadsdown.

           ‘Ideclare,’saidmymother,gently,‘theyareexactlyalike.Isupposetheyaremine.Ithinktheyarethecolourofmine.Buttheyarewonderfullyalike.’

           ‘Whatareyoutalkingabout,Clara?’saidMissMurdstone.

           ‘MydearJane,’falteredmymother,alittleabashedbytheharshtoneofthisinquiry,‘Ifindthatthebaby’seyesandDavy’sareexactlyalike.’

           ‘Clara!’saidMissMurdstone,risingangrily,‘youareapositivefoolsometimes.’

           ‘MydearJane,’remonstratedmymother.

           ‘Apositivefool,’saidMissMurdstone.‘Whoelsecouldcomparemybrother’sbabywithyourboy?Theyarenotatallalike.Theyareexactlyunlike.Theyareutterlydissimilarinallrespects.Ihopetheywilleverremainso.Iwillnotsithere,andhearsuchcomparisonsmade.’Withthatshestalkedout,andmadethedoorbangafterher.

           Inshort,IwasnotafavouritewithMissMurdstone.

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