Дэвид Копперфильд

The Sequel of My Resolution

           Theonlycircumstancewhichgavemeanynewhope,wasmyaunt’sstoppingonthestairstoinquireaboutasmelloffirethatwasprevalentthere;andjanet’sreplyingthatshehadbeenmakingtinderdowninthekitchen,ofmyoldshirt.ButtherewerenootherclothesinmyroomthantheoddheapofthingsIwore;andwhenIwasleftthere,withalittletaperwhichmyauntforewarnedmewouldburnexactlyfiveminutes,Iheardthemlockmydoorontheoutside.TurningthesethingsoverinmymindIdeemeditpossiblethatmyaunt,whocouldknownothingofme,mightsuspectIhadahabitofrunningaway,andtookprecautions,onthataccount,tohavemeinsafekeeping.

           Theroomwasapleasantone,atthetopofthehouse,overlookingthesea,onwhichthemoonwasshiningbrilliantly.AfterIhadsaidmyprayers,andthecandlehadburntout,IrememberhowIstillsatlookingatthemoonlightonthewater,asifIcouldhopetoreadmyfortuneinit,asinabrightbook;ortoseemymotherwithherchild,comingfromHeaven,alongthatshiningpath,tolookuponmeasshehadlookedwhenIlastsawhersweetface.IrememberhowthesolemnfeelingwithwhichatlengthIturnedmyeyesaway,yieldedtothesensationofgratitudeandrestwhichthesightofthewhite-curtainedbedandhowmuchmorethelyingsoftlydownuponit,nestlinginthesnow-whitesheets!inspired

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