Дэвид Копперфильд

I Observe

           

           ImighthaveamisgivingthatIam‘meandering’instoppingtosaythis,butthatitbringsmetoremarkthatIbuildtheseconclusions,inpartuponmyownexperienceofmyself;andifitshouldappearfromanythingImaysetdowninthisnarrativethatIwasachildofcloseobservation,orthatasamanIhaveastrongmemoryofmychildhood,Iundoubtedlylayclaimtobothofthesecharacteristics.

           Lookingback,asIwassaying,intotheblankofmyinfancy,thefirstobjectsIcanrememberasstandingoutbythemselvesfromaconfusionofthings,aremymotherandPeggotty.WhatelsedoIremember?Letmesee.

           Therecomesoutofthecloud,ourhousenotnewtome,butquitefamiliar,initsearliestremembrance.Ontheground-floorisPeggotty’skitchen,openingintoabackyard;withapigeon-houseonapole,inthecentre,withoutanypigeonsinit;agreatdog-kennelinacorner,withoutanydog;andaquantityoffowlsthatlookterriblytalltome,walkingabout,inamenacingandferociousmanner.Thereisonecockwhogetsuponaposttocrow,andseemstotakeparticularnoticeofmeasIlookathimthroughthekitchenwindow,whomakesmeshiver,heissofierce.Ofthegeeseoutsidetheside-gatewhocomewaddlingaftermewiththeirlongnecksstretchedoutwhenIgothatway,Idreamatnight:asamanenvironedbywildbeastsmightdreamoflions.

           HereisalongpassagewhatanenormousperspectiveImakeofit!-leadingfromPeggotty’skitchentothefrontdoor.

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