Девід Копперфільд

I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like it

           Micawberwouldbetransportedwithgriefandmortification,eventothelength(asIwasoncemadeawarebyascreamfromhiswife)ofmakingmotionsathimselfwitharazor;butwithinhalf-an-hourafterwards,hewouldpolishuphisshoeswithextraordinarypains,andgoout,hummingatunewithagreaterairofgentilitythanever.Mrs.Micawberwasquiteaselastic.Ihaveknownhertobethrownintofaintingfitsbytheking’staxesatthreeo’clock,andtoeatlambchops,breaded,anddrinkwarmale(paidforwithtwotea-spoonsthathadgonetothepawnbroker’s)atfour.Ononeoccasion,whenanexecutionhadjustbeenputin,cominghomethroughsomechanceasearlyassixo’clock,Isawherlying(ofcoursewithatwin)underthegrateinaswoon,withherhairalltornaboutherface;butIneverknewhermorecheerfulthanshewas,thatverysamenight,overavealcutletbeforethekitchenfire,tellingmestoriesaboutherpapaandmama,andthecompanytheyusedtokeep.

           Inthishouse,andwiththisfamily,Ipassedmyleisuretime.Myownexclusivebreakfastofapennyloafandapennyworthofmilk,Iprovidedmyself.Ikeptanothersmallloaf,andamodicumofcheese,onaparticularshelfofaparticularcupboard,tomakemysupperonwhenIcamebackatnight.Thismadeaholeinthesixorsevenshillings,Iknowwell;andIwasoutatthewarehouseallday,andhadtosupportmyselfonthatmoneyalltheweek.

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Roboto Lora
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