Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           Again,Icatchrareglimpsesofmymother,movingherlipstimidlybetweenthetwo,withoneofthemmutteringateachearlikelowthunder.Again,Iwonderwithasuddenfearwhetheritislikelythatourgoodoldclergymancanbewrong,andMr.andMissMurdstoneright,andthatalltheangelsinHeavencanbedestroyingangels.Again,ifImoveafingerorrelaxamuscleofmyface,MissMurdstonepokesmewithherprayer-book,andmakesmysideache.

           Yes,andagain,aswewalkhome,Inotesomeneighbourslookingatmymotherandatme,andwhispering.Again,asthethreegoonarm-in-arm,andIlingerbehindalone,Ifollowsomeofthoselooks,andwonderifmymother’sstepbereallynotsolightasIhaveseenit,andifthegaietyofherbeautybereallyalmostworriedaway.Again,Iwonderwhetheranyoftheneighbourscalltomind,asIdo,howweusedtowalkhometogether,sheandI;andIwonderstupidlyaboutthat,allthedrearydismalday.

           Therehadbeensometalkonoccasionsofmygoingtoboarding-school.Mr.andMissMurdstonehadoriginatedit,andmymotherhadofcourseagreedwiththem.Nothing,however,wasconcludedonthesubjectyet.Inthemeantime,Ilearntlessonsathome.ShallIeverforgetthoselessons!Theywerepresidedovernominallybymymother,butreallybyMr.Murdstoneandhissister,whowerealwayspresent,andfoundthemafavourableoccasionforgivingmymotherlessonsinthatmiscalledfirmness,whichwasthebaneofbothourlives.IbelieveIwaskeptathomeforthatpurpose.

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