Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           Bodgersbore,andphysicianswereinvain.IwonderwhethertheycalledinMr.Chillip,andhewasinvain;andifso,howhelikestoberemindedofitonceaweek.IlookfromMr.Chillip,inhisSundayneckcloth,tothepulpit;andthinkwhatagoodplaceitwouldbetoplayin,andwhatacastleitwouldmake,withanotherboycomingupthestairstoattackit,andhavingthevelvetcushionwiththetasselsthrowndownonhishead.Intimemyeyesgraduallyshutup;and,fromseemingtoheartheclergymansingingadrowsysongintheheat,Ihearnothing,untilIfallofftheseatwithacrash,andamtakenout,moredeadthanalive,byPeggotty.

           AndnowIseetheoutsideofourhouse,withthelatticedbedroom-windowsstandingopentoletinthesweet-smellingair,andtheraggedoldrooks’-nestsstilldanglingintheelm-treesatthebottomofthefrontgarden.NowIaminthegardenattheback,beyondtheyardwheretheemptypigeon-houseanddog-kennelareaverypreserveofbutterflies,asIrememberit,withahighfence,andagateandpadlock;wherethefruitclustersonthetrees,riperandricherthanfruithaseverbeensince,inanyothergarden,andwheremymothergatherssomeinabasket,whileIstandby,boltingfurtivegooseberries,andtryingtolookunmoved.Agreatwindrises,andthesummerisgoneinamoment.Weareplayinginthewintertwilight,dancingabouttheparlour.

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