Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           ThewayinwhichIlistenedtoalltheincidentsofthehousethatmadethemselvesaudibletome;theringingofbells,theopeningandshuttingofdoors,themurmuringofvoices,thefootstepsonthestairs;toanylaughing,whistling,orsinging,outside,whichseemedmoredismalthananythingelsetomeinmysolitudeanddisgrace—theuncertainpaceofthehours,especiallyatnight,whenIwouldwakethinkingitwasmorning,andfindthatthefamilywerenotyetgonetobed,andthatallthelengthofnighthadyettocome—thedepresseddreamsandnightmaresIhad—thereturnofday,noon,afternoon,evening,whentheboysplayedinthechurchyard,andIwatchedthemfromadistancewithintheroom,beingashamedtoshowmyselfatthewindowlesttheyshouldknowIwasaprisoner—thestrangesensationofneverhearingmyselfspeak—thefleetingintervalsofsomethinglikecheerfulness,whichcamewitheatinganddrinking,andwentawaywithit—thesettinginofrainoneevening,withafreshsmell,anditscomingdownfasterandfasterbetweenmeandthechurch,untilitandgatheringnightseemedtoquenchmeingloom,andfear,andremorseallthisappearstohavegoneroundandroundforyearsinsteadofdays,itissovividlyandstronglystampedonmyremembrance.Onthelastnightofmyrestraint,Iwasawakenedbyhearingmyownnamespokeninawhisper.

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Roboto Lora
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