Дэвид Копперфильд

A Retrospect

           ‘Doyouhearhim,Papa?TheeldestMissLarkins.’

           ‘TotoCaptainBailey?’Ihavejustenoughpowertoask.

           ‘No;tonoCaptain.ToMr.Chestle,ahop-grower.’

           Iamterriblydejectedforaboutaweekortwo.Itakeoffmyring,Iwearmyworstclothes,Iusenobear’sgrease,andIfrequentlylamentoverthelateMissLarkins’sfadedflower.Being,bythattime,rathertiredofthiskindoflife,andhavingreceivednewprovocationfromthebutcher,Ithrowthefloweraway,gooutwiththebutcher,andgloriouslydefeathim.

           This,andtheresumptionofmyring,aswellasofthebear’sgreaseinmoderation,arethelastmarksIcandiscern,now,inmyprogresstoseventeen.

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