Дэвид Копперфильд

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

           OnaSaturdaynight,whichwasmygrandtreat,-partlybecauseitwasagreatthingtowalkhomewithsixorsevenshillingsinmypocket,lookingintotheshopsandthinkingwhatsuchasumwouldbuy,andpartlybecauseIwenthomeearly,Mrs.Micawberwouldmakethemostheart-rendingconfidencestome;alsoonaSundaymorning,whenImixedtheportionofteaorcoffeeIhadboughtover-night,inalittleshaving-pot,andsatlateatmybreakfast.ItwasnothingatallunusualforMr.MicawbertosobviolentlyatthebeginningofoneoftheseSaturdaynightconversations,andsingaboutjack’sdelightbeinghislovelyNan,towardstheendofit.Ihaveknownhimcomehometosupperwithafloodoftears,andadeclarationthatnothingwasnowleftbutajail;andgotobedmakingacalculationoftheexpenseofputtingbow-windowstothehouse,‘incaseanythingturnedup’,whichwashisfavouriteexpression.AndMrs.Micawberwasjustthesame.

           Acuriousequalityoffriendship,originating,Isuppose,inourrespectivecircumstances,sprungupbetweenmeandthesepeople,notwithstandingtheludicrousdisparityinouryears.ButIneverallowedmyselftobeprevailedupontoacceptanyinvitationtoeatanddrinkwiththemoutoftheirstock(knowingthattheygotonbadlywiththebutcherandbaker,andhadoftennottoomuchforthemselves),untilMrs.Micawbertookmeintoherentireconfidence.Thisshedidoneeveningasfollows:

           ‘MasterCopperfield,’saidMrs.

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