Дэвид Копперфильд

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

           FromMondaymorninguntilSaturdaynight,Ihadnoadvice,nocounsel,noencouragement,noconsolation,noassistance,nosupport,ofanykind,fromanyone,thatIcancalltomind,asIhopetogotoheaven!

           Iwassoyoungandchildish,andsolittlequalified—howcouldIbeotherwise?—toundertakethewholechargeofmyownexistence,thatoften,ingoingtoMurdstoneandGrinby’s,ofamorning,Icouldnotresistthestalepastryputoutforsaleathalf-priceatthepastrycooks’doors,andspentinthatthemoneyIshouldhavekeptformydinner.Then,Iwentwithoutmydinner,orboughtarollorasliceofpudding.Iremembertwopuddingshops,betweenwhichIwasdivided,accordingtomyfinances.OnewasinacourtclosetoSt.Martin’sChurch—atthebackofthechurch,whichisnowremovedaltogether.Thepuddingatthatshopwasmadeofcurrants,andwasratheraspecialpudding,butwasdear,twopennyworthnotbeinglargerthanapennyworthofmoreordinarypudding.AgoodshopforthelatterwasintheStrand—somewhereinthatpartwhichhasbeenrebuiltsince.Itwasastoutpalepudding,heavyandflabby,andwithgreatflatraisinsinit,stuckinwholeatwidedistancesapart.Itcameuphotataboutmytimeeveryday,andmanyadaydidIdineoffit.

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