Девід Копперфільд

My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon

           Whenitwasasleepagain,Icreptclosetomymother’ssideaccordingtomyoldcustom,brokennowalongtime,andsatwithmyarmsembracingherwaist,andmylittleredcheekonhershoulder,andoncemorefeltherbeautifulhairdroopingovermelikeanangel’swingasIusedtothink,Irecollectandwasveryhappyindeed.

           WhileIsatthus,lookingatthefire,andseeingpicturesinthered-hotcoals,IalmostbelievedthatIhadneverbeenaway;thatMr.andMissMurdstoneweresuchpictures,andwouldvanishwhenthefiregotlow;andthattherewasnothingrealinallthatIremembered,savemymother,Peggotty,andI.

           Peggottydarnedawayatastockingaslongasshecouldsee,andthensatwithitdrawnonherlefthandlikeaglove,andherneedleinherright,readytotakeanotherstitchwhenevertherewasablaze.IcannotconceivewhosestockingstheycanhavebeenthatPeggottywasalwaysdarning,orwheresuchanunfailingsupplyofstockingsinwantofdarningcanhavecomefrom.Frommyearliestinfancysheseemstohavebeenalwaysemployedinthatclassofneedlework,andneverbyanychanceinanyother.

           ‘Iwonder,’saidPeggotty,whowassometimesseizedwithafitofwonderingonsomemostunexpectedtopic,‘what’sbecomeofDavy’sgreat-aunt?’‘Lor,Peggotty!’observedmymother,rousingherselffromareverie,‘whatnonsenseyoutalk!’

           ‘Well,butIreallydowonder,ma’am,’saidPeggotty.

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Roboto Lora
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