Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           Ithankedhim,andassented;andparticularlysmallitlooked,underthosecircumstances.

           Ihadnowleisuretoexaminethepurse.Itwasastiffleatherpurse,withasnap,andhadthreebrightshillingsinit,whichPeggottyhadevidentlypolishedupwithwhitening,formygreaterdelight.Butitsmostpreciouscontentsweretwohalf-crownsfoldedtogetherinabitofpaper,onwhichwaswritten,inmymother’shand,‘ForDavy.Withmylove.’Iwassoovercomebythis,thatIaskedthecarriertobesogoodastoreachmemypocket-handkerchiefagain;buthesaidhethoughtIhadbetterdowithoutit,andIthoughtIreallyhad,soIwipedmyeyesonmysleeveandstoppedmyself.

           Forgood,too;though,inconsequenceofmypreviousemotions,Iwasstilloccasionallyseizedwithastormysob.Afterwehadjoggedonforsomelittletime,Iaskedthecarrierifhewasgoingalltheway.

           ‘Allthewaywhere?’inquiredthecarrier.

           ‘There,’Isaid.

           ‘Where’sthere?’inquiredthecarrier.

           ‘NearLondon,’Isaid.

           ‘Whythathorse,’saidthecarrier,jerkingthereintopointhimout,‘wouldbedeaderthanporkaforehegotoverhalftheground.’

           ‘AreyouonlygoingtoYarmouththen?’Iasked.

           ‘That’saboutit,’saidthecarrier.‘AndthereIshalltakeyoutothestage-cutch,andthestage-cutchthat’lltakeyoutowhereveritis.

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