Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           Mymotherdeferredtoherverymuchmorethanusual,itoccurredtome—andwewereallthreeexcellentfriends;stillweweredifferentfromwhatweusedtobe,andwerenotsocomfortableamongourselves.SometimesIfanciedthatPeggottyperhapsobjectedtomymother’swearingalltheprettydressesshehadinherdrawers,ortohergoingsooftentovisitatthatneighbour’s;butIcouldn’t,tomysatisfaction,makeouthowitwas.

           Gradually,Ibecameusedtoseeingthegentlemanwiththeblackwhiskers.Ilikedhimnobetterthanatfirst,andhadthesameuneasyjealousyofhim;butifIhadanyreasonforitbeyondachild’sinstinctivedislike,andageneralideathatPeggottyandIcouldmakemuchofmymotherwithoutanyhelp,itcertainlywasnotTHEreasonthatImighthavefoundifIhadbeenolder.Nosuchthingcameintomymind,ornearit.Icouldobserve,inlittlepieces,asitwere;butastomakinganetofanumberofthesepieces,andcatchinganybodyinit,thatwas,asyet,beyondme.

           OneautumnmorningIwaswithmymotherinthefrontgarden,whenMr.Murdstone—Iknewhimbythatnamenow—cameby,onhorseback.Hereineduphishorsetosalutemymother,andsaidhewasgoingtoLowestofttoseesomefriendswhoweretherewithayacht,andmerrilyproposedtotakemeonthesaddlebeforehimifIwouldliketheride.

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