Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           Andoh,howlittleneedIhadhadtothinkwhatwouldmovemetotearswhenIcamebackseeingthewindowofmymother’sroom,andnextitthatwhich,inthebettertime,wasmine!

           IwasinPeggotty’sarmsbeforeIgottothedoor,andshetookmeintothehouse.Hergriefburstoutwhenshefirstsawme;butshecontrolleditsoon,andspokeinwhispers,andwalkedsoftly,asifthedeadcouldbedisturbed.Shehadnotbeeninbed,Ifound,foralongtime.Shesatupatnightstill,andwatched.Aslongasherpoordearprettywasabovetheground,shesaid,shewouldneverdeserther.

           Mr.MurdstonetooknoheedofmewhenIwentintotheparlourwherehewas,butsatbythefireside,weepingsilently,andponderinginhiselbow-chair.MissMurdstone,whowasbusyatherwriting-desk,whichwascoveredwithlettersandpapers,gavemehercoldfinger-nails,andaskedme,inanironwhisper,ifIhadbeenmeasuredformymourning.

           Isaid:‘Yes.’

           ‘Andyourshirts,’saidMissMurdstone;‘haveyoubrought‘emhome?’

           ‘Yes,ma’am.Ihavebroughthomeallmyclothes.’

           Thiswasalltheconsolationthatherfirmnessadministeredtome.Idonotdoubtthatshehadachoicepleasureinexhibitingwhatshecalledherself-command,andherfirmness,andherstrengthofmind,andhercommonsense,andthewholediabolicalcatalogueofherunamiablequalities,onsuchanoccasion.

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