Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           Davy,younaughtyboy!Peggotty,yousavagecreature!Oh,dearme!’criedmymother,turningfromoneofustotheother,inherpettishwilfulmanner,‘whatatroublesomeworldthisis,whenonehasthemostrighttoexpectittobeasagreeableaspossible!’

           IfeltthetouchofahandthatIknewwasneitherhersnorPeggotty’s,andslippedtomyfeetatthebed-side.ItwasMr.Murdstone’shand,andhekeptitonmyarmashesaid:

           ‘What’sthis?Clara,mylove,haveyouforgotten?Firmness,mydear!’

           ‘Iamverysorry,Edward,’saidmymother.‘Imeanttobeverygood,butIamsouncomfortable.’

           ‘Indeed!’heanswered.‘That’sabadhearing,sosoon,Clara.’

           ‘Isayit’sveryhardIshouldbemadesonow,’returnedmymother,pouting;‘anditisveryhardisn’tit?’

           Hedrewhertohim,whisperedinherear,andkissedher.Iknewaswell,whenIsawmymother’sheadleandownuponhisshoulder,andherarmtouchhisneckIknewaswellthathecouldmouldherpliantnatureintoanyformhechose,asIknow,now,thathedidit.

           ‘Goyoubelow,mylove,’saidMr.Murdstone.‘DavidandIwillcomedown,together.

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