Дэвид Копперфильд

I Look About Me, and Make a Discovery

           Theimpendingshadowofagreataffliction,andagreatdisgracethathadnodistinctforminityet,felllikeastainuponthequietplacewhereIhadworkedandplayedasaboy,anddiditacruelwrong.Ihadnopleasureinthinking,anymore,ofthegraveoldbroad-leavedaloe-trees,whichremainedshutupinthemselvesahundredyearstogether,andofthetrimsmoothgrass-plot,andthestoneurns,andtheDoctor’swalk,andthecongenialsoundoftheCathedralbellhoveringabovethemall.Itwasasifthetranquilsanctuaryofmyboyhoodhadbeensackedbeforemyface,anditspeaceandhonourgiventothewinds.

           Butmorningbroughtwithitmypartingfromtheoldhouse,whichAgneshadfilledwithherinfluence;andthatoccupiedmymindsufficiently.Ishouldbethereagainsoon,nodoubt;Imightsleepagainperhapsofteninmyoldroom;butthedaysofmyinhabitingthereweregone,andtheoldtimewaspast.IwasheavieratheartwhenIpackedupsuchofmybooksandclothesasstillremainedtheretobesenttoDover,thanIcaredtoshowtoUriahHeep;whowassoofficioustohelpme,thatIuncharitablythoughthimmightygladthatIwasgoing.

           IgotawayfromAgnesandherfather,somehow,withanindifferentshowofbeingverymanly,andtookmyseatupontheboxoftheLondoncoach.Iwassosoftenedandforgiving,goingthroughthetown,thatIhadhalfamindtonodtomyoldenemythebutcher,andthrowhimfiveshillingstodrink.

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