Дэвид Копперфильд

I Fall into Disgrace

           

           ‘IsthatthereasonwhyMissMurdstonetooktheclothesoutofmydrawers?’whichshehaddone,thoughIhaveforgottentomentionit.

           ‘Yes,’saidPeggotty.‘Box.’

           ‘Shan’tIseemama?’

           ‘Yes,’saidPeggotty.‘Morning.’

           ThenPeggottyfittedhermouthclosetothekeyhole,anddeliveredthesewordsthroughitwithasmuchfeelingandearnestnessasakeyholehaseverbeenthemediumofcommunicating,Iwillventuretoassert:shootingineachbrokenlittlesentenceinaconvulsivelittleburstofitsown.

           ‘Davy,dear.IfIain’tbeenazacklyasintimatewithyou.Lately,asIusedtobe.Itain’tbecauseIdon’tloveyou.justaswellandmore,myprettypoppet.It’sbecauseIthoughtitbetterforyou.Andforsomeoneelsebesides.Davy,mydarling,areyoulistening?Canyouhear?’

           ‘Ye-ye-ye-yes,Peggotty!’Isobbed.

           ‘Myown!’saidPeggotty,withinfinitecompassion.‘WhatIwanttosay,is.Thatyoumustneverforgetme.ForI’llneverforgetyou.AndI’lltakeasmuchcareofyourmama,Davy.AseverItookofyou.AndIwon’tleaveher.Thedaymaycomewhenshe’llbegladtolayherpoorhead.Onherstupid,crossoldPeggotty’sarmagain.AndI’llwritetoyou,mydear.ThoughIain’tnoscholar.AndI’llI’llPeggottyfelltokissingthekeyhole,asshecouldn’tkissme.

           ‘Thankyou,dearPeggotty!’saidI.

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