Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           

           OnemorningwhenIwentintotheparlourwithmybooks,Ifoundmymotherlookinganxious,MissMurdstonelookingfirm,andMr.Murdstonebindingsomethingroundthebottomofacanealitheandlimbercane,whichheleftoffbindingwhenIcamein,andpoisedandswitchedintheair.

           ‘Itellyou,Clara,’saidMr.Murdstone,‘Ihavebeenoftenfloggedmyself.’

           ‘Tobesure;ofcourse,’saidMissMurdstone.

           ‘Certainly,mydearJane,’falteredmymother,meekly.‘ButbutdoyouthinkitdidEdwardgood?’

           ‘DoyouthinkitdidEdwardharm,Clara?’askedMr.Murdstone,gravely.

           ‘That’sthepoint,’saidhissister.

           Tothismymotherreturned,‘Certainly,mydearJane,’andsaidnomore.

           IfeltapprehensivethatIwaspersonallyinterestedinthisdialogue,andsoughtMr.Murdstone’seyeasitlightedonmine.

           ‘Now,David,’hesaidandIsawthatcastagainashesaidit‘youmustbefarmorecarefultodaythanusual.’Hegavethecaneanotherpoise,andanotherswitch;andhavingfinishedhispreparationofit,laiditdownbesidehim,withanimpressivelook,andtookuphisbook.

           Thiswasagoodfreshenertomypresenceofmind,asabeginning.

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