Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           Inshort,Iwasnotafavouritetherewithanybody,notevenwithmyself;forthosewhodidlikemecouldnotshowit,andthosewhodidnot,showeditsoplainlythatIhadasensitiveconsciousnessofalwaysappearingconstrained,boorish,anddull.

           IfeltthatImadethemasuncomfortableastheymademe.IfIcameintotheroomwheretheywere,andtheyweretalkingtogetherandmymotherseemedcheerful,ananxiouscloudwouldstealoverherfacefromthemomentofmyentrance.IfMr.Murdstonewereinhisbesthumour,Icheckedhim.IfMissMurdstonewereinherworst,Iintensifiedit.Ihadperceptionenoughtoknowthatmymotherwasthevictimalways;thatshewasafraidtospeaktomeortobekindtome,lestsheshouldgivethemsomeoffencebyhermannerofdoingso,andreceivealectureafterwards;thatshewasnotonlyceaselesslyafraidofherownoffending,butofmyoffending,anduneasilywatchedtheirlooksifIonlymoved.ThereforeIresolvedtokeepmyselfasmuchoutoftheirwayasIcould;andmanyawintryhourdidIhearthechurchclockstrike,whenIwassittinginmycheerlessbedroom,wrappedinmylittlegreat-coat,poringoverabook.

           Intheevening,sometimes,IwentandsatwithPeggottyinthekitchen.ThereIwascomfortable,andnotafraidofbeingmyself.Butneitheroftheseresourceswasapprovedofintheparlour.Thetormentinghumourwhichwasdominanttherestoppedthemboth.

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