Дэвид Копперфильд

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

           Iwonderwhattheythoughtofme!

           Iwassuchachild,andsolittle,thatfrequentlywhenIwentintothebarofastrangepublic-houseforaglassofaleorporter,tomoistenwhatIhadhadfordinner,theywereafraidtogiveitme.IrememberonehoteveningIwentintothebarofapublic-house,andsaidtothelandlord:‘Whatisyourbestyourverybestaleaglass?’Foritwasaspecialoccasion.Idon’tknowwhat.Itmayhavebeenmybirthday.

           ‘Twopence-halfpenny,’saysthelandlord,‘isthepriceoftheGenuineStunningale.’

           ‘Then,’saysI,producingthemoney,‘justdrawmeaglassoftheGenuineStunning,ifyouplease,withagoodheadtoit.’

           Thelandlordlookedatmeinreturnoverthebar,fromheadtofoot,withastrangesmileonhisface;andinsteadofdrawingthebeer,lookedroundthescreenandsaidsomethingtohiswife.Shecameoutfrombehindit,withherworkinherhand,andjoinedhiminsurveyingme.Herewestand,allthree,beforemenow.Thelandlordinhisshirt-sleeves,leaningagainstthebarwindow-frame;hiswifelookingoverthelittlehalf-door;andI,insomeconfusion,lookingupatthemfromoutsidethepartition.Theyaskedmeagoodmanyquestions;as,whatmynamewas,howoldIwas,whereIlived,howIwasemployed,andhowIcamethere.Toallofwhich,thatImightcommitnobody,Iinvented,Iamafraid,appropriateanswers.

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