Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           Iwonderwheretheydogo,bytheby?

           Ihandthefirstbooktomymother.Perhapsitisagrammar,perhapsahistory,orgeography.ItakealastdrowninglookatthepageasIgiveitintoherhand,andstartoffaloudataracingpacewhileIhavegotitfresh.Itripoveraword.Mr.Murdstonelooksup.Itripoveranotherword.MissMurdstonelooksup.Iredden,tumbleoverhalf-a-dozenwords,andstop.Ithinkmymotherwouldshowmethebookifshedared,butshedoesnotdare,andshesayssoftly:

           ‘Oh,Davy,Davy!’

           ‘Now,Clara,’saysMr.Murdstone,‘befirmwiththeboy.Don’tsay,“Oh,Davy,Davy!”That’schildish.Heknowshislesson,orhedoesnotknowit.’

           ‘HedoesNOTknowit,’MissMurdstoneinterposesawfully.

           ‘Iamreallyafraidhedoesnot,’saysmymother.

           ‘Then,yousee,Clara,’returnsMissMurdstone,‘youshouldjustgivehimthebookback,andmakehimknowit.’

           ‘Yes,certainly,’saysmymother;‘thatiswhatIintendtodo,mydearJane.Now,Davy,tryoncemore,anddon’tbestupid.’

           Iobeythefirstclauseoftheinjunctionbytryingoncemore,butamnotsosuccessfulwiththesecond,forIamverystupid.ItumbledownbeforeIgettotheoldplace,atapointwhereIwasallrightbefore,andstoptothink.ButIcan’tthinkaboutthelesson.IthinkofthenumberofyardsofnetinMissMurdstone’scap,orofthepriceofMr.

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