Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           Murdstone’sdressing-gown,oranysuchridiculousproblemthatIhavenobusinesswith,anddon’twanttohaveanythingatalltodowith.Mr.MurdstonemakesamovementofimpatiencewhichIhavebeenexpectingforalongtime.MissMurdstonedoesthesame.Mymotherglancessubmissivelyatthem,shutsthebook,andlaysitbyasanarreartobeworkedoutwhenmyothertasksaredone.

           Thereisapileofthesearrearsverysoon,anditswellslikearollingsnowball.Thebiggeritgets,themorestupidIget.Thecaseissohopeless,andIfeelthatIamwallowinginsuchabogofnonsense,thatIgiveupallideaofgettingout,andabandonmyselftomyfate.ThedespairingwayinwhichmymotherandIlookateachother,asIblunderon,istrulymelancholy.Butthegreatesteffectinthesemiserablelessonsiswhenmymother(thinkingnobodyisobservingher)triestogivemethecuebythemotionofherlips.Atthatinstant,MissMurdstone,whohasbeenlyinginwaitfornothingelseallalong,saysinadeepwarningvoice:

           ‘Clara!’

           Mymotherstarts,colours,andsmilesfaintly.Mr.Murdstonecomesoutofhischair,takesthebook,throwsitatmeorboxesmyearswithit,andturnsmeoutoftheroombytheshoulders.

           Evenwhenthelessonsaredone,theworstisyettohappen,intheshapeofanappallingsum.Thisisinventedforme,anddeliveredtomeorallybyMr.

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Roboto Lora
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