Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           Ionlyrecollectthatunderneathsomewhitecoveringonthebed,withabeautifulcleanlinessandfreshnessallaroundit,thereseemedtometolieembodiedthesolemnstillnessthatwasinthehouse;andthatwhenshewouldhaveturnedthecovergentlyback,Icried:‘Ohno!ohno!’andheldherhand.

           Ifthefuneralhadbeenyesterday,Icouldnotrecollectitbetter.Theveryairofthebestparlour,whenIwentinatthedoor,thebrightconditionofthefire,theshiningofthewineinthedecanters,thepatternsoftheglassesandplates,thefaintsweetsmellofcake,theodourofMissMurdstone’sdress,andourblackclothes.Mr.Chillipisintheroom,andcomestospeaktome.

           ‘AndhowisMasterDavid?’hesays,kindly.

           Icannottellhimverywell.Igivehimmyhand,whichheholdsinhis.

           ‘Dearme!’saysMr.Chillip,meeklysmiling,withsomethingshininginhiseye.‘Ourlittlefriendsgrowuparoundus.Theygrowoutofourknowledge,ma’am?’ThisistoMissMurdstone,whomakesnoreply.

           ‘Thereisagreatimprovementhere,ma’am?’saysMr.Chillip.

           MissMurdstonemerelyanswerswithafrownandaformalbend:Mr.Chillip,discomfited,goesintoacorner,keepingmewithhim,andopenshismouthnomore.

           Iremarkthis,becauseIremarkeverythingthathappens,notbecauseIcareaboutmyself,orhavedonesinceIcamehome.Andnowthebellbeginstosound,andMr.

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