Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           Icrawledupfromthefloor,andsawmyfaceintheglass,soswollen,red,anduglythatitalmostfrightenedme.Mystripesweresoreandstiff,andmademecryafresh,whenImoved;buttheywerenothingtotheguiltIfelt.ItlayheavieronmybreastthanifIhadbeenamostatrociouscriminal,Idaresay.

           Ithadbeguntogrowdark,andIhadshutthewindow(Ihadbeenlying,forthemostpart,withmyheaduponthesill,byturnscrying,dozing,andlookinglistlesslyout),whenthekeywasturned,andMissMurdstonecameinwithsomebreadandmeat,andmilk.Thesesheputdownuponthetablewithoutaword,glaringatmethewhilewithexemplaryfirmness,andthenretired,lockingthedoorafterher.

           LongafteritwasdarkIsatthere,wonderingwhetheranybodyelsewouldcome.Whenthisappearedimprobableforthatnight,Iundressed,andwenttobed;and,there,Ibegantowonderfearfullywhatwouldbedonetome.WhetheritwasacriminalactthatIhadcommitted?WhetherIshouldbetakenintocustody,andsenttoprison?WhetherIwasatallindangerofbeinghanged?

           Inevershallforgetthewaking,nextmorning;thebeingcheerfulandfreshforthefirstmoment,andthenthebeingweigheddownbythestaleanddismaloppressionofremembrance.MissMurdstonereappearedbeforeIwasoutofbed;toldme,insomanywords,thatIwasfreetowalkinthegardenforhalfanhourandnolonger;andretired,leavingthedooropen,thatImightavailmyselfofthatpermission.

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