Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           Adarkstore-roomopensoutofit,andthatisaplacetoberunpastatnight;forIdon’tknowwhatmaybeamongthosetubsandjarsandoldtea-chests,whenthereisnobodyintherewithadimly-burninglight,lettingamouldyaircomeoutofthedoor,inwhichthereisthesmellofsoap,pickles,pepper,candles,andcoffee,allatonewhiff.Thentherearethetwoparlours:theparlourinwhichwesitofanevening,mymotherandIandPeggottyforPeggottyisquiteourcompanion,whenherworkisdoneandwearealoneandthebestparlourwherewesitonaSunday;grandly,butnotsocomfortably.Thereissomethingofadolefulairaboutthatroomtome,forPeggottyhastoldmeIdon’tknowwhen,butapparentlyagesagoaboutmyfather’sfuneral,andthecompanyhavingtheirblackcloaksputon.OneSundaynightmymotherreadstoPeggottyandmeinthere,howLazaruswasraisedupfromthedead.AndIamsofrightenedthattheyareafterwardsobligedtotakemeoutofbed,andshowmethequietchurchyardoutofthebedroomwindow,withthedeadalllyingintheirgravesatrest,belowthesolemnmoon.

           ThereisnothinghalfsogreenthatIknowanywhere,asthegrassofthatchurchyard;nothinghalfsoshadyasitstrees;nothinghalfsoquietasitstombstones.

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