Дэвид Копперфильд

My ‘First Half’ at Salem House

           

           Iwellrememberthough,howthedistantideaoftheholidays,afterseemingforanimmensetimetobeastationaryspeck,begantocometowardsus,andtogrowandgrow.Howfromcountingmonths,wecametoweeks,andthentodays;andhowIthenbegantobeafraidthatIshouldnotbesentforandwhenIlearntfromSteerforththatIhadbeensentfor,andwascertainlytogohome,haddimforebodingsthatImightbreakmylegfirst.Howthebreaking-updaychangeditsplacefast,atlast,fromtheweekafternexttonextweek,thisweek,thedayaftertomorrow,tomorrow,today,tonightwhenIwasinsidetheYarmouthmail,andgoinghome.

           IhadmanyabrokensleepinsidetheYarmouthmail,andmanyanincoherentdreamofallthesethings.ButwhenIawokeatintervals,thegroundoutsidethewindowwasnottheplaygroundofSalemHouse,andthesoundinmyearswasnotthesoundofMr.CreaklegivingittoTraddles,butthesoundofthecoachmantouchingupthehorses.

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