Дэвид Копперфильд

I Am Sent Away from Home

           MellandI,attheupperendofalongbaredining-room,fullofdealtables,andsmellingoffat.Then,wehadmoretasksuntiltea,whichMr.Melldrankoutofablueteacup,andIoutofatinpot.Alldaylong,anduntilsevenoreightintheevening,Mr.Mell,athisowndetacheddeskintheschoolroom,workedhardwithpen,ink,ruler,books,andwriting-paper,makingoutthebills(asIfound)forlasthalf-year.Whenhehadputuphisthingsforthenighthetookouthisflute,andblewatit,untilIalmostthoughthewouldgraduallyblowhiswholebeingintothelargeholeatthetop,andoozeawayatthekeys.

           Ipicturemysmallselfinthedimly-lightedrooms,sittingwithmyheaduponmyhand,listeningtothedolefulperformanceofMr.Mell,andconningtomorrow’slessons.Ipicturemyselfwithmybooksshutup,stilllisteningtothedolefulperformanceofMr.Mell,andlisteningthroughittowhatusedtobeathome,andtotheblowingofthewindonYarmouthflats,andfeelingverysadandsolitary.Ipicturemyselfgoinguptobed,amongtheunusedrooms,andsittingonmybed-sidecryingforacomfortablewordfromPeggotty.Ipicturemyselfcomingdownstairsinthemorning,andlookingthroughalongghastlygashofastaircasewindowattheschool-bellhangingonthetopofanout-housewithaweathercockaboveit;anddreadingthetimewhenitshallringJ

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