Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Captivity

           Spenlowmadeout,Irespectfullydeferredtohisopinion.Thataboutthepriceofwheatperbushel,Imodestlyfeltwastoomuchformystrength,andquitesettledthequestion.Ihavenever,tothishour,gotthebetterofthatbushelofwheat.Ithasreappearedtoannihilateme,allthroughmylife,inconnexionwithallkindsofsubjects.Idon’tknownow,exactly,whatithastodowithme,orwhatrightithastocrushme,onaninfinitevarietyofoccasions;butwheneverIseemyoldfriendthebushelbroughtinbytheheadandshoulders(ashealwaysis,Iobserve),Igiveupasubjectforlost.

           Thisisadigression.IwasnotthemantotouchtheCommons,andbringdownthecountry.Isubmissivelyexpressed,bymysilence,myacquiescenceinallIhadheardfrommysuperiorinyearsandknowledge;andwetalkedaboutTheStrangerandtheDrama,andthepairsofhorses,untilwecametoMr.Spenlow’sgate.

           TherewasalovelygardentoMr.Spenlow’shouse;andthoughthatwasnotthebesttimeoftheyearforseeingagarden,itwassobeautifullykept,thatIwasquiteenchanted.Therewasacharminglawn,therewereclustersoftrees,andtherewereperspectivewalksthatIcouldjustdistinguishinthedark,archedoverwithtrellis-work,onwhichshrubsandflowersgrewinthegrowingseason.‘HereMissSpenlowwalksbyherself,’Ithought.

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