Дэвид Копперфильд

I Make Another Beginning

           

           Itsohappenedthatthischairwasoppositeanarrowpassage,whichendedinthelittlecircularroomwhereIhadseenUriahHeep’spalefacelookingoutofthewindow.Uriah,havingtakentheponytoaneighbouringstable,wasatworkatadeskinthisroom,whichhadabrassframeonthetoptohangpaperupon,andonwhichthewritinghewasmakingacopyofwasthenhanging.Thoughhisfacewastowardsme,Ithought,forsometime,thewritingbeingbetweenus,thathecouldnotseeme;butlookingthatwaymoreattentively,itmademeuncomfortabletoobservethat,everynowandthen,hissleeplesseyeswouldcomebelowthewriting,liketworedsuns,andstealthilystareatmeforIdaresayawholeminuteatatime,duringwhichhispenwent,orpretendedtogo,ascleverlyasever.Imadeseveralattemptstogetoutoftheirway-suchasstandingonachairtolookatamapontheothersideoftheroom,andporingoverthecolumnsofaKentishnewspaperbuttheyalwaysattractedmebackagain;andwheneverIlookedtowardsthosetworedsuns,Iwassuretofindthem,eitherjustrisingorjustsetting.

           Atlength,muchtomyrelief,myauntandMr.Wickfieldcameback,afteraprettylongabsence.TheywerenotsosuccessfulasIcouldhavewished;forthoughtheadvantagesoftheschoolwereundeniable,myaunthadnotapprovedofanyoftheboarding-housesproposedforme.

           ‘It’sveryunfortunate,’saidmyaunt.‘Idon’tknowwhattodo,Trot.

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