Дэвид Копперфильд

I Become Neglected, and Am Provided for

           Ididnotknowwhattoreply,andglanceddubiouslyatMr.Murdstone.

           ‘Heisathomeatpresent,’saidthelatter.‘Heisnotbeingeducatedanywhere.Idon’tknowwhattodowithhim.Heisadifficultsubject.’

           Thatold,doublelookwasonmeforamoment;andthenhiseyesdarkenedwithafrown,asitturned,initsaversion,elsewhere.

           ‘Humph!’saidMr.Quinion,lookingatusboth,Ithought.‘Fineweather!’

           Silenceensued,andIwasconsideringhowIcouldbestdisengagemyshoulderfromhishand,andgoaway,whenhesaid:

           ‘Isupposeyouareaprettysharpfellowstill?Eh,Brooks?’

           ‘Aye!Heissharpenough,’saidMr.Murdstone,impatiently.‘Youhadbetterlethimgo.Hewillnotthankyoufortroublinghim.’

           Onthishint,Mr.Quinionreleasedme,andImadethebestofmywayhome.LookingbackasIturnedintothefrontgarden,IsawMr.Murdstoneleaningagainstthewicketofthechurchyard,andMr.Quiniontalkingtohim.Theywerebothlookingafterme,andIfeltthattheywerespeakingofme.

           Mr.Quinionlayatourhousethatnight.Afterbreakfast,thenextmorning,Ihadputmychairaway,andwasgoingoutoftheroom,whenMr.Murdstonecalledmeback.Hethengravelyrepairedtoanothertable,wherehissistersatherselfatherdesk.Mr.Quinion,withhishandsinhispockets,stoodlookingoutofwindow;andIstoodlookingatthemall.

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