Дэвид Копперфильд

Liking Life on My Own Account No Better, I Form a Great Resolution

           

           Again,andagain,andahundredtimesagain,sincethenightwhenthethoughthadfirstoccurredtomeandbanishedsleep,Ihadgoneoverthatoldstoryofmypoormother’saboutmybirth,whichithadbeenoneofmygreatdelightsintheoldtimetohearhertell,andwhichIknewbyheart.Myauntwalkedintothatstory,andwalkedoutofit,adreadandawfulpersonage;buttherewasonelittletraitinherbehaviourwhichIlikedtodwellon,andwhichgavemesomefaintshadowofencouragement.Icouldnotforgethowmymotherhadthoughtthatshefelthertouchherprettyhairwithnoungentlehand;andthoughitmighthavebeenaltogethermymother’sfancy,andmighthavehadnofoundationwhateverinfact,Imadealittlepicture,outofit,ofmyterribleauntrelentingtowardsthegirlishbeautythatIrecollectedsowellandlovedsomuch,whichsoftenedthewholenarrative.Itisverypossiblethatithadbeeninmymindalongtime,andhadgraduallyengenderedmydetermination.

           AsIdidnotevenknowwhereMissBetseylived,IwrotealonglettertoPeggotty,andaskedher,incidentally,ifsheremembered;pretendingthatIhadheardofsuchaladylivingatacertainplaceInamedatrandom,andhadacuriositytoknowifitwerethesame.Inthecourseofthatletter,ItoldPeggottythatIhadaparticularoccasionforhalfaguinea;andthatifshecouldlendmethatsumuntilIcouldrepayit,Ishouldbeverymuchobligedtoher,andwouldtellherafterwardswhatIhadwanteditfor.

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