Дэвид Копперфильд

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

           Isoonbecameatleastasexpeditiousandasskilfulaseitheroftheotherboys.Thoughperfectlyfamiliarwiththem,myconductandmannerweredifferentenoughfromtheirstoplaceaspacebetweenus.Theyandthemengenerallyspokeofmeas‘thelittlegent’,or‘theyoungSuffolker.’AcertainmannamedGregory,whowasforemanofthepackers,andanothernamedTipp,whowasthecarman,andworearedjacket,usedtoaddressmesometimesas‘David’:butIthinkitwasmostlywhenwewereveryconfidential,andwhenIhadmadesomeeffortstoentertainthem,overourwork,withsomeresultsoftheoldreadings;whichwerefastperishingoutofmyremembrance.MealyPotatoesuproseonce,andrebelledagainstmybeingsodistinguished;butMickWalkersettledhiminnotime.

           MyrescuefromthiskindofexistenceIconsideredquitehopeless,andabandoned,assuch,altogether.IamsolemnlyconvincedthatIneverforonehourwasreconciledtoit,orwasotherwisethanmiserablyunhappy;butIboreit;andeventoPeggotty,partlyfortheloveofherandpartlyforshame,neverinanyletter(thoughmanypassedbetweenus)revealedthetruth.

           Mr.Micawber’sdifficultieswereanadditiontothedistressedstateofmymind.InmyforlornstateIbecamequiteattachedtothefamily,andusedtowalkabout,busywithMrs.Micawber’scalculationsofwaysandmeans,andheavywiththeweightofMr.Micawber’sdebts.

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