Дэвид Копперфильд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           Wemustendeavourtochangeitforyou.’

           ‘Ibegyourpardon,sir,’Ifaltered.‘IhavenevermeanttobesullensinceIcameback.’

           ‘Don’ttakerefugeinalie,sir!’hereturnedsofiercely,thatIsawmymotherinvoluntarilyputouthertremblinghandasiftointerposebetweenus.‘Youhavewithdrawnyourselfinyoursullennesstoyourownroom.Youhavekeptyourownroomwhenyououghttohavebeenhere.Youknownow,onceforall,thatIrequireyoutobehere,andnotthere.Further,thatIrequireyoutobringobediencehere.Youknowme,David.Iwillhaveitdone.’

           MissMurdstonegaveahoarsechuckle.

           ‘Iwillhavearespectful,prompt,andreadybearingtowardsmyself,’hecontinued,‘andtowardsJaneMurdstone,andtowardsyourmother.Iwillnothavethisroomshunnedasifitwereinfected,atthepleasureofachild.Sitdown.’

           Heorderedmelikeadog,andIobeyedlikeadog.

           ‘Onethingmore,’hesaid.‘Iobservethatyouhaveanattachmenttolowandcommoncompany.Youarenottoassociatewithservants.Thekitchenwillnotimproveyou,inthemanyrespectsinwhichyouneedimprovement.Ofthewomanwhoabetsyou,Isaynothingsinceyou,Clara,’addressingmymotherinalowervoice,‘fromoldassociationsandlong-establishedfancies,haveaweaknessrespectingherwhichisnotyetovercome.’

           ‘Amostunaccountabledelusionitis!’criedMissMurdstone.

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