Дэвид Копперфильд

I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like it

           Micawberimpressingthenameofstreets,andtheshapesofcornerhousesuponme,aswewentalong,thatImightfindmywayback,easily,inthemorning.

           ArrivedatthishouseinWindsorTerrace(whichInoticedwasshabbylikehimself,butalso,likehimself,madealltheshowitcould),hepresentedmetoMrs.Micawber,athinandfadedlady,notatallyoung,whowassittingintheparlour(thefirstfloorwasaltogetherunfurnished,andtheblindswerekeptdowntodeludetheneighbours),withababyatherbreast.Thisbabywasoneoftwins;andImayremarkherethatIhardlyever,inallmyexperienceofthefamily,sawboththetwinsdetachedfromMrs.Micawberatthesametime.Oneofthemwasalwaystakingrefreshment.

           Thereweretwootherchildren;MasterMicawber,agedaboutfour,andMissMicawber,agedaboutthree.These,andadark-complexionedyoungwoman,withahabitofsnorting,whowasservanttothefamily,andinformedme,beforehalfanhourhadexpired,thatshewas‘aOrfling’,andcamefromSt.Luke’sworkhouse,intheneighbourhood,completedtheestablishment.Myroomwasatthetopofthehouse,attheback:aclosechamber;stencilledalloverwithanornamentwhichmyyoungimaginationrepresentedasabluemuffin;andveryscantilyfurnished.

           ‘Ineverthought,’saidMrs.

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