Дэвид Копперфильд

A Last Retrospect

           SheisgodmothertoareallivingBetseyTrotwood;andDora(thenextinorder)saysshespoilsher.

           ThereissomethingbulkyinPeggotty’spocket.ItisnothingsmallerthantheCrocodileBook,whichisinratheradilapidatedconditionbythistime,withdiversoftheleavestornandstitchedacross,butwhichPeggottyexhibitstothechildrenasapreciousrelic.Ifinditverycurioustoseemyowninfantface,lookingupatmefromtheCrocodilestories;andtoberemindedbyitofmyoldacquaintanceBrooksofSheffield.

           Amongmyboys,thissummerholidaytime,Iseeanoldmanmakinggiantkites,andgazingatthemintheair,withadelightforwhichtherearenowords.Hegreetsmerapturously,andwhispers,withmanynodsandwinks,‘Trotwood,youwillbegladtohearthatIshallfinishtheMemorialwhenIhavenothingelsetodo,andthatyouraunt’sthemostextraordinarywomanintheworld,sir!’

           Whoisthisbentlady,supportingherselfbyastick,andshowingmeacountenanceinwhichtherearesometracesofoldprideandbeauty,feeblycontendingwithaquerulous,imbecile,fretfulwanderingofthemind?Sheisinagarden;andnearherstandsasharp,dark,witheredwoman,withawhitescaronherlip.Letmehearwhattheysay.

           ‘Rosa,Ihaveforgottenthisgentleman’sname.’

           Rosabendsoverher,andcallstoher,‘Mr.Copperfield.’

           ‘Iamgladtoseeyou,sir.Iamsorrytoobserveyouareinmourning.

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