Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           Iseemyself,aseveningclosesin,comingoverthebridgeatRochester,footsoreandtired,andeatingbreadthatIhadboughtforsupper.Oneortwolittlehouses,withthenotice,‘LodgingsforTravellers’,hangingout,hadtemptedme;butIwasafraidofspendingthefewpenceIhad,andwasevenmoreafraidoftheviciouslooksofthetrampersIhadmetorovertaken.Isoughtnoshelter,therefore,butthesky;andtoilingintoChatham,which,inthatnight’saspect,isameredreamofchalk,anddrawbridges,andmastlessshipsinamuddyriver,roofedlikeNoah’sarks,—crept,atlast,uponasortofgrass-grownbatteryoverhangingalane,whereasentrywaswalkingtoandfro.HereIlaydown,nearacannon;and,happyinthesocietyofthesentry’sfootsteps,thoughheknewnomoreofmybeingabovehimthantheboysatSalemHousehadknownofmylyingbythewall,sleptsoundlyuntilmorning.

           VerystiffandsoreoffootIwasinthemorning,andquitedazedbythebeatingofdrumsandmarchingoftroops,whichseemedtohemmeinoneverysidewhenIwentdowntowardsthelongnarrowstreet.FeelingthatIcouldgobutaverylittlewaythatday,ifIweretoreserveanystrengthforgettingtomyjourney’send,Iresolvedtomakethesaleofmyjacketitsprincipalbusiness.Accordingly,Itookthejacketoff,thatImightlearntodowithoutit;andcarryingitundermyarm,beganatourofinspectionofthevariousslop-shops.

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