Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           Creakle,afterapause,‘weretheyallwell?’Afteranotherpause,‘Wasyourmamawell?’

           Itrembledwithoutdistinctlyknowingwhy,andstilllookedatherearnestly,makingnoattempttoanswer.

           ‘Because,’saidshe,‘IgrievetotellyouthatIhearthismorningyourmamaisveryill.’

           AmistrosebetweenMrs.Creakleandme,andherfigureseemedtomoveinitforaninstant.ThenIfelttheburningtearsrundownmyface,anditwassteadyagain.

           ‘Sheisverydangerouslyill,’sheadded.

           Iknewallnow.

           ‘Sheisdead.’

           Therewasnoneedtotellmeso.Ihadalreadybrokenoutintoadesolatecry,andfeltanorphaninthewideworld.

           Shewasverykindtome.Shekeptmethereallday,andleftmealonesometimes;andIcried,andworemyselftosleep,andawokeandcriedagain.WhenIcouldcrynomore,Ibegantothink;andthentheoppressiononmybreastwasheaviest,andmygriefadullpainthattherewasnoeasefor.

           Andyetmythoughtswereidle;notintentonthecalamitythatweigheduponmyheart,butidlyloiteringnearit.Ithoughtofourhouseshutupandhushed.Ithoughtofthelittlebaby,who,Mrs.Creaklesaid,hadbeenpiningawayforsometime,andwho,theybelieved,woulddietoo.Ithoughtofmyfather’sgraveinthechurchyard,byourhouse,andofmymotherlyingtherebeneaththetreeIknewsowell.

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