Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           “Layyourgoodarmunderneathmyneck,”shesaid,“andturnmetoyou,foryourfaceisgoingfaroff,andIwantittobenear.”Iputitassheasked;andohDavy!thetimehadcomewhenmyfirstpartingwordstoyouweretruewhenshewasgladtolayherpoorheadonherstupidcrossoldPeggotty’sarmandshediedlikeachildthathadgonetosleep!’

           ThusendedPeggotty’snarration.Fromthemomentofmyknowingofthedeathofmymother,theideaofherasshehadbeenoflatehadvanishedfromme.Irememberedher,fromthatinstant,onlyastheyoungmotherofmyearliestimpressions,whohadbeenusedtowindherbrightcurlsroundandroundherfinger,andtodancewithmeattwilightintheparlour.WhatPeggottyhadtoldmenow,wassofarfrombringingmebacktothelaterperiod,thatitrootedtheearlierimageinmymind.Itmaybecurious,butitistrue.Inherdeathshewingedherwaybacktohercalmuntroubledyouth,andcancelledalltherest.

           Themotherwholayinthegrave,wasthemotherofmyinfancy;thelittlecreatureinherarms,wasmyself,asIhadoncebeen,hushedforeveronherbosom.

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