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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 126/820
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She
was
particularly
proud
of
her
turn
for
business
;
and
she
showed
it
now
in
reducing
everything
to
pen
and
ink
,
and
being
moved
by
nothing
.
All
the
rest
of
that
day
,
and
from
morning
to
night
afterwards
,
she
sat
at
that
desk
,
scratching
composedly
with
a
hard
pen
,
speaking
in
the
same
imperturbable
whisper
to
everybody
;
never
relaxing
a
muscle
of
her
face
,
or
softening
a
tone
of
her
voice
,
or
appearing
with
an
atom
of
her
dress
astray
.
Her
brother
took
a
book
sometimes
,
but
never
read
it
that
I
saw
.
He
would
open
it
and
look
at
it
as
if
he
were
reading
,
but
would
remain
for
a
whole
hour
without
turning
the
leaf
,
and
then
put
it
down
and
walk
to
and
fro
in
the
room
.
I
used
to
sit
with
folded
hands
watching
him
,
and
counting
his
footsteps
,
hour
after
hour
.
He
very
seldom
spoke
to
her
,
and
never
to
me
.
He
seemed
to
be
the
only
restless
thing
,
except
the
clocks
,
in
the
whole
motionless
house
.
In
these
days
before
the
funeral
,
I
saw
but
little
of
Peggotty
,
except
that
,
in
passing
up
or
down
stairs
,
I
always
found
her
close
to
the
room
where
my
mother
and
her
baby
lay
,
and
except
that
she
came
to
me
every
night
,
and
sat
by
my
bed
’
s
head
while
I
went
to
sleep
.
A
day
or
two
before
the
burial
—
I
think
it
was
a
day
or
two
before
,
but
I
am
conscious
of
confusion
in
my
mind
about
that
heavy
time
,
with
nothing
to
mark
its
progress
—
she
took
me
into
the
room
.
I
only
recollect
that
underneath
some
white
covering
on
the
bed
,
with
a
beautiful
cleanliness
and
freshness
all
around
it
,
there
seemed
to
me
to
lie
embodied
the
solemn
stillness
that
was
in
the
house
;
and
that
when
she
would
have
turned
the
cover
gently
back
,
I
cried
:
‘
Oh
no
!
oh
no
!
’
and
held
her
hand
.
If
the
funeral
had
been
yesterday
,
I
could
not
recollect
it
better
.
The
very
air
of
the
best
parlour
,
when
I
went
in
at
the
door
,
the
bright
condition
of
the
fire
,
the
shining
of
the
wine
in
the
decanters
,
the
patterns
of
the
glasses
and
plates
,
the
faint
sweet
smell
of
cake
,
the
odour
of
Miss
Murdstone
’
s
dress
,
and
our
black
clothes
.
Mr
.
Chillip
is
in
the
room
,
and
comes
to
speak
to
me
.
‘
And
how
is
Master
David
?
’
he
says
,
kindly
.
I
cannot
tell
him
very
well
.
I
give
him
my
hand
,
which
he
holds
in
his
.
‘
Dear
me
!
’
says
Mr
.
Chillip
,
meekly
smiling
,
with
something
shining
in
his
eye
.
‘
Our
little
friends
grow
up
around
us
.
They
grow
out
of
our
knowledge
,
ma
’
am
?
’
This
is
to
Miss
Murdstone
,
who
makes
no
reply
.
‘
There
is
a
great
improvement
here
,
ma
’
am
?
’
says
Mr
.
Chillip
.
Miss
Murdstone
merely
answers
with
a
frown
and
a
formal
bend
:
Mr
.
Chillip
,
discomfited
,
goes
into
a
corner
,
keeping
me
with
him
,
and
opens
his
mouth
no
more
.
