Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           Shewasparticularlyproudofherturnforbusiness;andsheshoweditnowinreducingeverythingtopenandink,andbeingmovedbynothing.Alltherestofthatday,andfrommorningtonightafterwards,shesatatthatdesk,scratchingcomposedlywithahardpen,speakinginthesameimperturbablewhispertoeverybody;neverrelaxingamuscleofherface,orsofteningatoneofhervoice,orappearingwithanatomofherdressastray.

           Herbrothertookabooksometimes,butneverreaditthatIsaw.Hewouldopenitandlookatitasifhewerereading,butwouldremainforawholehourwithoutturningtheleaf,andthenputitdownandwalktoandfrointheroom.Iusedtositwithfoldedhandswatchinghim,andcountinghisfootsteps,hourafterhour.Heveryseldomspoketoher,andnevertome.Heseemedtobetheonlyrestlessthing,excepttheclocks,inthewholemotionlesshouse.

           Inthesedaysbeforethefuneral,IsawbutlittleofPeggotty,exceptthat,inpassingupordownstairs,Ialwaysfoundherclosetotheroomwheremymotherandherbabylay,andexceptthatshecametomeeverynight,andsatbymybed’sheadwhileIwenttosleep.AdayortwobeforetheburialIthinkitwasadayortwobefore,butIamconsciousofconfusioninmymindaboutthatheavytime,withnothingtomarkitsprogressshetookmeintotheroom.

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