Дэвид Копперфильд

Depression

           NowIwasragged,wantingtosellDoramatches,sixbundlesforahalfpenny;nowIwasattheofficeinanightgownandboots,remonstratedwithbyMr.Spenlowonappearingbeforetheclientsinthatairyattire;nowIwashungrilypickingupthecrumbsthatfellfromoldTiffey’sdailybiscuit,regularlyeatenwhenSt.Paul’sstruckone;nowIwashopelesslyendeavouringtogetalicencetomarryDora,havingnothingbutoneofUriahHeep’sglovestoofferinexchange,whichthewholeCommonsrejected;andstill,moreorlessconsciousofmyownroom,Iwasalwaystossingaboutlikeadistressedshipinaseaofbed-clothes.

           Myauntwasrestless,too,forIfrequentlyheardherwalkingtoandfro.Twoor,threetimesinthecourseofthenight,attiredinalongflannelwrapperinwhichshelookedsevenfeethigh,sheappeared,likeadisturbedghost,inmyroom,andcametothesideofthesofaonwhichIlay.OnthefirstoccasionIstartedupinalarm,tolearnthatsheinferredfromaparticularlightinthesky,thatWestminsterAbbeywasonfire;andtobeconsultedinreferencetotheprobabilityofitsignitingBuckinghamStreet,incasethewindchanged.Lyingstill,afterthat,Ifoundthatshesatdownnearme,whisperingtoherself‘Poorboy!’Andthenitmademetwentytimesmorewretched,toknowhowunselfishlymindfulshewasofme,andhowselfishlymindfulIwasofmyself.

           Itwasdifficulttobelievethatanightsolongtome,couldbeshorttoanybodyelse.

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