Дэвид Копперфильд

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

           WhenIdinedregularlyandhandsomely,Ihadasaveloyandapennyloaf,orafourpennyplateofredbeeffromacook’sshop;oraplateofbreadandcheeseandaglassofbeer,fromamiserableoldpublic-houseoppositeourplaceofbusiness,calledtheLion,ortheLionandsomethingelsethatIhaveforgotten.Once,Iremembercarryingmyownbread(whichIhadbroughtfromhomeinthemorning)undermyarm,wrappedinapieceofpaper,likeabook,andgoingtoafamousalamodebeef-housenearDruryLane,andorderinga‘smallplate’ofthatdelicacytoeatwithit.Whatthewaiterthoughtofsuchastrangelittleapparitioncominginallalone,Idon’tknow;butIcanseehimnow,staringatmeasIatemydinner,andbringinguptheotherwaitertolook.Igavehimahalfpennyforhimself,andIwishhehadn’ttakenit.

           Wehadhalf-an-hour,Ithink,fortea.WhenIhadmoneyenough,Iusedtogethalf-a-pintofready-madecoffeeandasliceofbreadandbutter.WhenIhadnone,IusedtolookatavenisonshopinFleetStreet;orIhavestrolled,atsuchatime,asfarasCoventGardenMarket,andstaredatthepineapples.IwasfondofwanderingabouttheAdelphi,becauseitwasamysteriousplace,withthosedarkarches.Iseemyselfemergingoneeveningfromsomeofthesearches,onalittlepublic-houseclosetotheriver,withanopenspacebeforeit,wheresomecoal-heaversweredancing;tolookatwhomIsatdownuponabench.

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