Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           Irememberitasakindofhalfchaise-cart,halfpianoforte-van,paintedofasombrecolour,anddrawnbyablackhorsewithalongtail.Therewasplentyofroomforusall.

           IdonotthinkIhaveeverexperiencedsostrangeafeelinginmylife(Iamwisernow,perhaps)asthatofbeingwiththem,rememberinghowtheyhadbeenemployed,andseeingthemenjoytheride.Iwasnotangrywiththem;Iwasmoreafraidofthem,asifIwerecastawayamongcreatureswithwhomIhadnocommunityofnature.Theywereverycheerful.Theoldmansatinfronttodrive,andthetwoyoungpeoplesatbehindhim,andwheneverhespoketothemleanedforward,theoneononesideofhischubbyfaceandtheotherontheother,andmadeagreatdealofhim.Theywouldhavetalkedtometoo,butIheldback,andmopedinmycorner;scaredbytheirlove-makingandhilarity,thoughitwasfarfromboisterous,andalmostwonderingthatnojudgementcameuponthemfortheirhardnessofheart.

           So,whentheystoppedtobaitthehorse,andateanddrankandenjoyedthemselves,Icouldtouchnothingthattheytouched,butkeptmyfastunbroken.So,whenwereachedhome,Idroppedoutofthechaisebehind,asquicklyaspossible,thatImightnotbeintheircompanybeforethosesolemnwindows,lookingblindlyonmelikeclosedeyesoncebright.

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