Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           Withwhichwordsshehurriedintothehouse,asiftoshakeofftheresponsibilityofmyappearance;andleftmestandingatthegarden-gate,lookingdisconsolatelyoverthetopofittowardstheparlourwindow,whereamuslincurtainpartlyundrawninthemiddle,alargeroundgreenscreenorfanfastenedontothewindowsill,asmalltable,andagreatchair,suggestedtomethatmyauntmightbeatthatmomentseatedinawfulstate.

           Myshoeswerebythistimeinawoefulcondition.Thesoleshadshedthemselvesbitbybit,andtheupperleathershadbrokenandburstuntiltheveryshapeandformofshoeshaddepartedfromthem.Myhat(whichhadservedmeforanight-cap,too)wassocrushedandbent,thatnooldbatteredhandlelesssaucepanonadunghillneedhavebeenashamedtoviewithit.Myshirtandtrousers,stainedwithheat,dew,grass,andtheKentishsoilonwhichIhadsleptandtornbesidesmighthavefrightenedthebirdsfrommyaunt’sgarden,asIstoodatthegate.MyhairhadknownnocomborbrushsinceIleftLondon.Myface,neck,andhands,fromunaccustomedexposuretotheairandsun,wereburnttoaberry-brown.FromheadtofootIwaspowderedalmostaswhitewithchalkanddust,asifIhadcomeoutofalime-kiln.Inthisplight,andwithastrongconsciousnessofit,Iwaitedtointroducemyselfto,andmakemyfirstimpressionon,myformidableaunt.

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