Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           IstooduponachairwhenIwasleftalone,andlookedintotheglasstoseehowredmyeyeswere,andhowsorrowfulmyface.Iconsidered,aftersomehoursweregone,ifmytearswerereallyhardtoflownow,astheyseemedtobe,what,inconnexionwithmyloss,itwouldaffectmemosttothinkofwhenIdrewnearhomeforIwasgoinghometothefuneral.Iamsensibleofhavingfeltthatadignityattachedtomeamongtherestoftheboys,andthatIwasimportantinmyaffliction.

           Ifeverchildwerestrickenwithsinceregrief,Iwas.ButIrememberthatthisimportancewasakindofsatisfactiontome,whenIwalkedintheplaygroundthatafternoonwhiletheboyswereinschool.WhenIsawthemglancingatmeoutofthewindows,astheywentuptotheirclasses,Ifeltdistinguished,andlookedmoremelancholy,andwalkedslower.Whenschoolwasover,andtheycameoutandspoketome,Ifeltitrathergoodinmyselfnottobeproudtoanyofthem,andtotakeexactlythesamenoticeofthemall,asbefore.

           Iwastogohomenextnight;notbythemail,butbytheheavynight-coach,whichwascalledtheFarmer,andwasprincipallyusedbycountry-peopletravellingshortintermediatedistancesupontheroad.Wehadnostory-tellingthatevening,andTraddlesinsistedonlendingmehispillow.

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