Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           

           Theairwassoclearandpleasant,andthehorseseemedtoliketheideaoftheridesomuchhimself,ashestoodsnortingandpawingatthegarden-gate,thatIhadagreatdesiretogo.SoIwassentupstairstoPeggottytobemadespruce;andinthemeantimeMr.Murdstonedismounted,and,withhishorse’sbridledrawnoverhisarm,walkedslowlyupanddownontheoutersideofthesweetbriarfence,whilemymotherwalkedslowlyupanddownontheinnertokeephimcompany.IrecollectPeggottyandIpeepingoutatthemfrommylittlewindow;Irecollecthowcloselytheyseemedtobeexaminingthesweetbriarbetweenthem,astheystrolledalong;andhow,frombeinginaperfectlyangelictemper,Peggottyturnedcrossinamoment,andbrushedmyhairthewrongway,excessivelyhard.

           Mr.MurdstoneandIweresoonoff,andtrottingalongonthegreenturfbythesideoftheroad.Heheldmequiteeasilywithonearm,andIdon’tthinkIwasrestlessusually;butIcouldnotmakeupmymindtositinfrontofhimwithoutturningmyheadsometimes,andlookingupinhisface.HehadthatkindofshallowblackeyeIwantabetterwordtoexpressaneyethathasnodepthinittobelookedintowhich,whenitisabstracted,seemsfromsomepeculiarityoflighttobedisfigured,foramomentatatime,byacast.SeveraltimeswhenIglancedathim,Iobservedthatappearancewithasortofawe,andwonderedwhathewasthinkingaboutsoclosely.

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