Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           Omer,afterwatchingmeforsomeminutes,duringwhichIhadnotmademuchimpressiononthebreakfast,fortheblackthingsdestroyedmyappetite,‘Ihavebeenacquaintedwithyoualongtime,myyoungfriend.’

           ‘Haveyou,sir?’

           ‘Allyourlife,’saidMr.Omer.‘Imaysaybeforeit.Iknewyourfatherbeforeyou.Hewasfivefootnineandahalf,andhelaysinfive-and-twen-tyfootofground.’

           ‘RATtat-tat,RATtat-tat,RATtat-tat,’acrosstheyard.

           ‘Helaysinfiveandtwen-tyfootofground,ifhelaysinafraction,’saidMr.Omer,pleasantly.‘Itwaseitherhisrequestorherdirection,Iforgetwhich.’

           ‘Doyouknowhowmylittlebrotheris,sir?’Iinquired.

           Mr.Omershookhishead.

           ‘RATtat-tat,RATtat-tat,RATtat-tat.’

           ‘Heisinhismother’sarms,’saidhe.

           ‘Oh,poorlittlefellow!Ishedead?’

           ‘Don’tminditmorethanyoucanhelp,’saidMr.Omer.‘Yes.Thebaby’sdead.’

           Mywoundsbrokeoutafreshatthisintelligence.Ileftthescarcely-tastedbreakfast,andwentandrestedmyheadonanothertable,inacornerofthelittleroom,whichMinniehastilycleared,lestIshouldspotthemourningthatwaslyingtherewithmytears.

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