Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           Iprofitsomuchbyitmyself,inmanywaysatleastIoughtto—thatnoonecanbemoreconvincedofitthanmyself;andthereforeIspeakwithgreatdiffidence,mydearJane,Iassureyou.’

           ‘We’llsayIdon’tunderstandtheboy,Clara,’returnedMissMurdstone,arrangingthelittlefettersonherwrists.‘We’llagree,ifyouplease,thatIdon’tunderstandhimatall.Heismuchtoodeepforme.Butperhapsmybrother’spenetrationmayenablehimtohavesomeinsightintohischaracter.AndIbelievemybrotherwasspeakingonthesubjectwhenwe—notverydecently-interruptedhim.’

           ‘Ithink,Clara,’saidMr.Murdstone,inalowgravevoice,‘thattheremaybebetterandmoredispassionatejudgesofsuchaquestionthanyou.’

           ‘Edward,’repliedmymother,timidly,‘youareafarbetterjudgeofallquestionsthanIpretendtobe.BothyouandJaneare.Ionlysaid——’

           ‘Youonlysaidsomethingweakandinconsiderate,’hereplied.‘Trynottodoitagain,mydearClara,andkeepawatchuponyourself.’

           Mymother’slipsmoved,asifsheanswered‘Yes,mydearEdward,’butshesaidnothingaloud.

           ‘Iwassorry,David,Iremarked,’saidMr.Murdstone,turninghisheadandhiseyesstifflytowardsme,‘toobservethatyouareofasullendisposition.ThisisnotacharacterthatIcansuffertodevelopitselfbeneathmyeyeswithoutaneffortatimprovement.Youmustendeavour,sir,tochangeit.

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