Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           ‘What’sthematter?’

           Ithoughtitwasverystrangethatsheshouldaskme,andanswered,‘Nothing.’Iturnedoveronmyface,Irecollect,tohidemytremblinglip,whichansweredherwithgreatertruth.‘Davy,’saidmymother.‘Davy,mychild!’

           Idaresaynowordsshecouldhaveutteredwouldhaveaffectedmesomuch,then,ashercallingmeherchild.Ihidmytearsinthebedclothes,andpressedherfrommewithmyhand,whenshewouldhaveraisedmeup.

           ‘Thisisyourdoing,Peggotty,youcruelthing!’saidmymother.‘Ihavenodoubtatallaboutit.Howcanyoureconcileittoyourconscience,Iwonder,toprejudicemyownboyagainstme,oragainstanybodywhoisdeartome?Whatdoyoumeanbyit,Peggotty?’

           PoorPeggottyliftedupherhandsandeyes,andonlyanswered,inasortofparaphraseofthegraceIusuallyrepeatedafterdinner,‘Lordforgiveyou,Mrs.Copperfield,andforwhatyouhavesaidthisminute,mayyouneverbetrulysorry!’

           ‘It’senoughtodistractme,’criedmymother.‘Inmyhoneymoon,too,whenmymostinveterateenemymightrelent,onewouldthink,andnotenvymealittlepeaceofmindandhappiness.

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