Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am a New Boy in More Senses than One

           Mymindranuponwhattheywouldthink,iftheyknewofmyfamiliaracquaintancewiththeKing’sBenchPrison?WasthereanythingaboutmewhichwouldrevealmyproceedingsinconnexionwiththeMicawberfamily—allthosepawnings,andsellings,andsuppersinspiteofmyself?SupposesomeoftheboyshadseenmecomingthroughCanterbury,waywornandragged,andshouldfindmeout?Whatwouldtheysay,whomadesolightofmoney,iftheycouldknowhowIhadscrapedmyhalfpencetogether,forthepurchaseofmydailysaveloyandbeer,ormyslicesofpudding?Howwoulditaffectthem,whoweresoinnocentofLondonlife,andLondonstreets,todiscoverhowknowingIwas(andwasashamedtobe)insomeofthemeanestphasesofboth?Allthisraninmyheadsomuch,onthatfirstdayatDoctorStrong’s,thatIfeltdistrustfulofmyslightestlookandgesture;shrunkwithinmyselfwhensoeverIwasapproachedbyoneofmynewschoolfellows;andhurriedofftheminuteschoolwasover,afraidofcommittingmyselfinmyresponsetoanyfriendlynoticeoradvance.

           ButtherewassuchaninfluenceinMr.Wickfield’soldhouse,thatwhenIknockedatit,withmynewschool-booksundermyarm,Ibegantofeelmyuneasinesssofteningaway.AsIwentuptomyairyoldroom,thegraveshadowofthestaircaseseemedtofalluponmydoubtsandfears,andtomakethepastmoreindistinct.Isatthere,sturdilyconningmybooks,untildinner-time(wewereoutofschoolforgoodatthree);andwentdown,hopefulofbecomingapassablesortofboyyet.

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