Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Born

           

           Theywentintotheparlourmymotherhadcomefrom,thefireinthebestroomontheothersideofthepassagenotbeinglightednothavingbeenlighted,indeed,sincemyfather’sfuneral;andwhentheywerebothseated,andMissBetseysaidnothing,mymother,aftervainlytryingtorestrainherself,begantocry.‘Ohtut,tut,tut!’saidMissBetsey,inahurry.‘Don’tdothat!Come,come!’

           Mymothercouldn’thelpitnotwithstanding,soshecrieduntilshehadhadhercryout.

           ‘Takeoffyourcap,child,’saidMissBetsey,‘andletmeseeyou.’

           Mymotherwastoomuchafraidofhertorefusecompliancewiththisoddrequest,ifshehadanydispositiontodoso.Thereforeshedidasshewastold,anddiditwithsuchnervoushandsthatherhair(whichwasluxuriantandbeautiful)fellallaboutherface.

           ‘Why,blessmyheart!’exclaimedMissBetsey.‘YouareaveryBaby!’

           Mymotherwas,nodoubt,unusuallyyouthfulinappearanceevenforheryears;shehungherhead,asifitwereherfault,poorthing,andsaid,sobbing,thatindeedshewasafraidshewasbutachildishwidow,andwouldbebutachildishmotherifshelived.Inashortpausewhichensued,shehadafancythatshefeltMissBetseytouchherhair,andthatwithnoungentlehand;but,lookingather,inhertimidhope,shefoundthatladysittingwiththeskirtofherdresstuckedup,herhandsfoldedononeknee,andherfeetuponthefender,frowningatthefire.

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