Дэвид Копперфильд

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

           Iledthesamesecretlyunhappylife;butIleditinthesamelonely,self-reliantmanner.TheonlychangesIamconsciousofare,firstly,thatIhadgrownmoreshabby,andsecondly,thatIwasnowrelievedofmuchoftheweightofMr.andMrs.Micawber’scares;forsomerelativesorfriendshadengagedtohelpthemattheirpresentpass,andtheylivedmorecomfortablyintheprisonthantheyhadlivedforalongwhileoutofit.Iusedtobreakfastwiththemnow,invirtueofsomearrangement,ofwhichIhaveforgottenthedetails.Iforget,too,atwhathourthegateswereopenedinthemorning,admittingofmygoingin;butIknowthatIwasoftenupatsixo’clock,andthatmyfavouritelounging-placeintheintervalwasoldLondonBridge,whereIwaswonttositinoneofthestonerecesses,watchingthepeoplegoingby,ortolookoverthebalustradesatthesunshininginthewater,andlightingupthegoldenflameonthetopoftheMonument.TheOrflingmetmeheresometimes,tobetoldsomeastonishingfictionsrespectingthewharvesandtheTower;ofwhichIcansaynomorethanthatIhopeIbelievedthemmyself.IntheeveningIusedtogobacktotheprison,andwalkupanddowntheparadewithMr.Micawber;orplaycasinowithMrs.Micawber,andhearreminiscencesofherpapaandmama.WhetherMr.MurdstoneknewwhereIwas,Iamunabletosay.InevertoldthematMurdstoneandGrinby’s.

           Mr.

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