Дэвид Копперфильд

Some Old Scenes, and Some New People

           Ihadnoideahowheemployedhistimeintheinterval,beyondageneralknowledgethathewasverypopularintheplace,andhadtwentymeansofactivelydivertinghimselfwhereanothermanmightnothavefoundone.

           Formyownpart,myoccupationinmysolitarypilgrimageswastorecalleveryyardoftheoldroadasIwentalongit,andtohaunttheoldspots,ofwhichInevertired.Ihauntedthem,asmymemoryhadoftendone,andlingeredamongthemasmyyoungerthoughtshadlingeredwhenIwasfaraway.Thegravebeneaththetree,wherebothmyparentslayonwhichIhadlookedout,whenitwasmyfather’sonly,withsuchcuriousfeelingsofcompassion,andbywhichIhadstood,sodesolate,whenitwasopenedtoreceivemyprettymotherandherbaby—thegravewhichPeggotty’sownfaithfulcarehadeversincekeptneat,andmadeagardenof,Iwalkednear,bythehour.Itlayalittleoffthechurchyardpath,inaquietcorner,notsofarremovedbutIcouldreadthenamesuponthestoneasIwalkedtoandfro,startledbythesoundofthechurch-bellwhenitstruckthehour,foritwaslikeadepartedvoicetome.MyreflectionsatthesetimeswerealwaysassociatedwiththefigureIwastomakeinlife,andthedistinguishedthingsIwastodo.Myechoingfootstepswenttonoothertune,butwereasconstanttothatasifIhadcomehometobuildmycastlesintheairatalivingmother’sside.

           Thereweregreatchangesinmyoldhome.

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