Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           Ifeltthewordsofmylessonsslippingoff,notonebyone,orlinebyline,butbytheentirepage;Itriedtolayholdofthem;buttheyseemed,ifImaysoexpressit,tohaveputskateson,andtoskimawayfrommewithasmoothnesstherewasnochecking.

           Webeganbadly,andwentonworse.Ihadcomeinwithanideaofdistinguishingmyselfrather,conceivingthatIwasverywellprepared;butitturnedouttobequiteamistake.Bookafterbookwasaddedtotheheapoffailures,MissMurdstonebeingfirmlywatchfulofusallthetime.Andwhenwecameatlasttothefivethousandcheeses(caneshemadeitthatday,Iremember),mymotherburstoutcrying.

           ‘Clara!’saidMissMurdstone,inherwarningvoice.

           ‘Iamnotquitewell,mydearJane,Ithink,’saidmymother.

           Isawhimwink,solemnly,athissister,asheroseandsaid,takingupthecane:

           ‘Why,Jane,wecanhardlyexpectClaratobear,withperfectfirmness,theworryandtormentthatDavidhasoccasionedhertoday.Thatwouldbestoical.Claraisgreatlystrengthenedandimproved,butwecanhardlyexpectsomuchfromher.David,youandIwillgoupstairs,boy.’

           Ashetookmeoutatthedoor,mymotherrantowardsus.MissMurdstonesaid,‘Clara!areyouaperfectfool?’andinterfered.Isawmymotherstopherearsthen,andIheardhercrying.

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