Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           Theraggednests,solongdesertedbytherooks,weregone;andthetreeswereloppedandtoppedoutoftheirrememberedshapes.Thegardenhadrunwild,andhalfthewindowsofthehousewereshutup.Itwasoccupied,butonlybyapoorlunaticgentleman,andthepeoplewhotookcareofhim.Hewasalwayssittingatmylittlewindow,lookingoutintothechurchyard;andIwonderedwhetherhisramblingthoughtseverwentuponanyofthefanciesthatusedtooccupymine,ontherosymorningswhenIpeepedoutofthatsamelittlewindowinmynight-clothes,andsawthesheepquietlyfeedinginthelightoftherisingsun.

           Ouroldneighbours,Mr.andMrs.Grayper,weregonetoSouthAmerica,andtherainhadmadeitswaythroughtheroofoftheiremptyhouse,andstainedtheouterwalls.Mr.Chillipwasmarriedagaintoatall,raw-boned,high-nosedwife;andtheyhadaweazenlittlebaby,withaheavyheadthatitcouldn’tholdup,andtwoweakstaringeyes,withwhichitseemedtobealwayswonderingwhyithadeverbeenborn.

           ItwaswithasingularjumbleofsadnessandpleasurethatIusedtolingeraboutmynativeplace,untilthereddeningwintersunadmonishedmethatitwastimetostartonmyreturningwalk.But,whentheplacewasleftbehind,andespeciallywhenSteerforthandIwerehappilyseatedoverourdinnerbyablazingfire,itwasdelicioustothinkofhavingbeenthere.

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