Дэвид Копперфильд

My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me

           Dick.‘David’sson’sTrotwood.’

           ‘TrotwoodCopperfield,youmean,’returnedmyaunt.

           ‘Yes,tobesure.Yes.TrotwoodCopperfield,’saidMr.Dick,alittleabashed.

           Myaunttooksokindlytothenotion,thatsomeready-madeclothes,whichwerepurchasedformethatafternoon,weremarked‘TrotwoodCopperfield’,inherownhandwriting,andinindeliblemarking-ink,beforeIputthemon;anditwassettledthatalltheotherclotheswhichwereorderedtobemadeforme(acompleteoutfitwasbespokethatafternoon)shouldbemarkedinthesameway.

           ThusIbeganmynewlife,inanewname,andwitheverythingnewaboutme.Nowthatthestateofdoubtwasover,Ifelt,formanydays,likeoneinadream.IneverthoughtthatIhadacuriouscoupleofguardians,inmyauntandMr.Dick.Ineverthoughtofanythingaboutmyself,distinctly.Thetwothingsclearestinmymindwere,thataremotenesshadcomeupontheoldBlunderstonelifewhichseemedtolieinthehazeofanimmeasurabledistance;andthatacurtainhadforeverfallenonmylifeatMurdstoneandGrinby’s.Noonehaseverraisedthatcurtainsince.Ihavelifteditforamoment,eveninthisnarrative,withareluctanthand,anddroppeditgladly.Theremembranceofthatlifeisfraughtwithsomuchpaintome,withsomuchmentalsufferingandwantofhope,thatIhaveneverhadthecourageeventoexaminehowlongIwasdoomedtoleadit.Whetheritlastedforayear,ormore,orless,Idonotknow

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