Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           Thesheeparefeedingthere,whenIkneelup,earlyinthemorning,inmylittlebedinaclosetwithinmymother’sroom,tolookoutatit;andIseetheredlightshiningonthesun-dial,andthinkwithinmyself,‘Isthesun-dialglad,Iwonder,thatitcantellthetimeagain?’

           Hereisourpewinthechurch.Whatahigh-backedpew!Withawindownearit,outofwhichourhousecanbeseen,andISseenmanytimesduringthemorning’sservice,byPeggotty,wholikestomakeherselfassureasshecanthatit’snotbeingrobbed,orisnotinflames.ButthoughPeggotty’seyewanders,sheismuchoffendedifminedoes,andfrownstome,asIstandupontheseat,thatIamtolookattheclergyman.ButIcan’talwayslookathim-Iknowhimwithoutthatwhitethingon,andIamafraidofhiswonderingwhyIstareso,andperhapsstoppingtheservicetoinquireandwhatamItodo?It’sadreadfulthingtogape,butImustdosomething.Ilookatmymother,butshepretendsnottoseeme.Ilookataboyintheaisle,andhemakesfacesatme.Ilookatthesunlightcominginattheopendoorthroughtheporch,andthereIseeastraysheepIdon’tmeanasinner,butmuttonhalfmakinguphismindtocomeintothechurch.IfeelthatifIlookedathimanylonger,Imightbetemptedtosaysomethingoutloud;andwhatwouldbecomeofmethen!Ilookupatthemonumentaltabletsonthewall,andtrytothinkofMr.Bodgerslateofthisparish,andwhatthefeelingsofMrs.Bodgersmusthavebeen,whenafflictionsore,longtimeMr.

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