Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           ‘Youain’tpoor,youknow,Charley,asyoupretend.Bringoutyourgold.Bringoutsomeofthegoldyousoldyourselftothedevilfor.Come!It’sintheliningofthemattress,Charley.Ripitopenandlet’shavesome!’This,andmanyofferstolendhimaknifeforthepurpose,exasperatedhimtosuchadegree,thatthewholedaywasasuccessionofrushesonhispart,andflightsonthepartoftheboys.Sometimesinhisragehewouldtakemeforoneofthem,andcomeatme,mouthingasifheweregoingtotearmeinpieces;then,rememberingme,justintime,woulddiveintotheshop,andlieuponhisbed,asIthoughtfromthesoundofhisvoice,yellinginafranticway,tohisownwindytune,the‘DeathofNelson’;withanOh!beforeeveryline,andinnumerableGoroosinterspersed.Asifthiswerenotbadenoughforme,theboys,connectingmewiththeestablishment,onaccountofthepatienceandperseverancewithwhichIsatoutside,half-dressed,peltedme,andusedmeveryillallday.

           Hemademanyattemptstoinducemetoconsenttoanexchange;atonetimecomingoutwithafishing-rod,atanotherwithafiddle,atanotherwithacockedhat,atanotherwithaflute.ButIresistedalltheseovertures,andsatthereindesperation;eachtimeaskinghim,withtearsinmyeyes,formymoneyormyjacket.Atlasthebegantopaymeinhalfpenceatatime;andwasfulltwohoursgettingbyeasystagestoashilling.

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