Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           ‘IwishwithallmysoulIcouldguidemyselfbetter!’

           Therewasapassionatedejectioninhismannerthatquiteamazedme.HewasmoreunlikehimselfthanIcouldhavesupposedpossible.

           ‘ItwouldbebettertobethispoorPeggotty,orhisloutofanephew,’hesaid,gettingupandleaningmoodilyagainstthechimney-piece,withhisfacetowardsthefire,‘thantobemyself,twentytimesricherandtwentytimeswiser,andbethetormenttomyselfthatIhavebeen,inthisDevil’sbarkofaboat,withinthelasthalf-hour!’

           Iwassoconfoundedbythealterationinhim,thatatfirstIcouldonlyobservehiminsilence,ashestoodleaninghisheaduponhishand,andlookinggloomilydownatthefire.AtlengthIbeggedhim,withalltheearnestnessIfelt,totellmewhathadoccurredtocrosshimsounusually,andtoletmesympathizewithhim,ifIcouldnothopetoadvisehim.BeforeIhadwellconcluded,hebegantolaughfretfullyatfirst,butsoonwithreturninggaiety.

           ‘Tut,it’snothing,Daisy!nothing!’hereplied.‘ItoldyouattheinninLondon,Iamheavycompanyformyself,sometimes.Ihavebeenanightmaretomyself,justnowmusthavehadone,Ithink.Atodddulltimes,nurserytalescomeupintothememory,unrecognizedforwhattheyare.IbelieveIhavebeenconfoundingmyselfwiththebadboywho“didn’tcare”,andbecamefoodforlionsagranderkindofgoingtothedogs,Isuppose.

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