-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Дэвид Копперфильд
-
- Стр. 14/820
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
I
might
have
a
misgiving
that
I
am
‘
meandering
’
in
stopping
to
say
this
,
but
that
it
brings
me
to
remark
that
I
build
these
conclusions
,
in
part
upon
my
own
experience
of
myself
;
and
if
it
should
appear
from
anything
I
may
set
down
in
this
narrative
that
I
was
a
child
of
close
observation
,
or
that
as
a
man
I
have
a
strong
memory
of
my
childhood
,
I
undoubtedly
lay
claim
to
both
of
these
characteristics
.
Looking
back
,
as
I
was
saying
,
into
the
blank
of
my
infancy
,
the
first
objects
I
can
remember
as
standing
out
by
themselves
from
a
confusion
of
things
,
are
my
mother
and
Peggotty
.
What
else
do
I
remember
?
Let
me
see
.
There
comes
out
of
the
cloud
,
our
house
—
not
new
to
me
,
but
quite
familiar
,
in
its
earliest
remembrance
.
On
the
ground
-
floor
is
Peggotty
’
s
kitchen
,
opening
into
a
back
yard
;
with
a
pigeon
-
house
on
a
pole
,
in
the
centre
,
without
any
pigeons
in
it
;
a
great
dog
-
kennel
in
a
corner
,
without
any
dog
;
and
a
quantity
of
fowls
that
look
terribly
tall
to
me
,
walking
about
,
in
a
menacing
and
ferocious
manner
.
There
is
one
cock
who
gets
upon
a
post
to
crow
,
and
seems
to
take
particular
notice
of
me
as
I
look
at
him
through
the
kitchen
window
,
who
makes
me
shiver
,
he
is
so
fierce
.
Of
the
geese
outside
the
side
-
gate
who
come
waddling
after
me
with
their
long
necks
stretched
out
when
I
go
that
way
,
I
dream
at
night
:
as
a
man
environed
by
wild
beasts
might
dream
of
lions
.
Here
is
a
long
passage
—
what
an
enormous
perspective
I
make
of
it
!
-
leading
from
Peggotty
’
s
kitchen
to
the
front
door
.
A
dark
store
-
room
opens
out
of
it
,
and
that
is
a
place
to
be
run
past
at
night
;
for
I
don
’
t
know
what
may
be
among
those
tubs
and
jars
and
old
tea
-
chests
,
when
there
is
nobody
in
there
with
a
dimly
-
burning
light
,
letting
a
mouldy
air
come
out
of
the
door
,
in
which
there
is
the
smell
of
soap
,
pickles
,
pepper
,
candles
,
and
coffee
,
all
at
one
whiff
.
Then
there
are
the
two
parlours
:
the
parlour
in
which
we
sit
of
an
evening
,
my
mother
and
I
and
Peggotty
—
for
Peggotty
is
quite
our
companion
,
when
her
work
is
done
and
we
are
alone
—
and
the
best
parlour
where
we
sit
on
a
Sunday
;
grandly
,
but
not
so
comfortably
.
There
is
something
of
a
doleful
air
about
that
room
to
me
,
for
Peggotty
has
told
me
—
I
don
’
t
know
when
,
but
apparently
ages
ago
—
about
my
father
’
s
funeral
,
and
the
company
having
their
black
cloaks
put
on
.
One
Sunday
night
my
mother
reads
to
Peggotty
and
me
in
there
,
how
Lazarus
was
raised
up
from
the
dead
.
And
I
am
so
frightened
that
they
are
afterwards
obliged
to
take
me
out
of
bed
,
and
show
me
the
quiet
churchyard
out
of
the
bedroom
window
,
with
the
dead
all
lying
in
their
graves
at
rest
,
below
the
solemn
moon
.
There
is
nothing
half
so
green
that
I
know
anywhere
,
as
the
grass
of
that
churchyard
;
nothing
half
so
shady
as
its
trees
;
nothing
half
so
quiet
as
its
tombstones
.
The
sheep
are
feeding
there
,
when
I
kneel
up
,
early
in
the
morning
,
in
my
little
bed
in
a
closet
within
my
mother
’
s
room
,
to
look
out
at
it
;
and
I
see
the
red
light
shining
on
the
sun
-
dial
,
and
think
within
myself
,
‘
Is
the
sun
-
dial
glad
,
I
wonder
,
that
it
can
tell
the
time
again
?
’
Here
is
our
pew
in
the
church
.
What
a
high
-
backed
pew
!
With
a
window
near
it
,
out
of
which
our
house
can
be
seen
,
and
IS
seen
many
times
during
the
morning
’
s
service
,
by
Peggotty
,
who
likes
to
make
herself
as
sure
as
she
can
that
it
’
s
not
being
robbed
,
or
is
not
in
flames
.
But
though
Peggotty
’
s
eye
wanders
,
she
is
much
offended
if
mine
does
,
and
frowns
to
me
,
as
I
stand
upon
the
seat
,
that
I
am
to
look
at
the
clergyman
.
But
I
can
’
t
always
look
at
him
-
I
know
him
without
that
white
thing
on
,
and
I
am
afraid
of
his
wondering
why
I
stare
so
,
and
perhaps
stopping
the
service
to
inquire
—
and
what
am
I
to
do
?
It
’
s
a
dreadful
thing
to
gape
,
but
I
must
do
something
.
I
look
at
my
mother
,
but
she
pretends
not
to
see
me
.
I
look
at
a
boy
in
the
aisle
,
and
he
makes
faces
at
me
.
I
look
at
the
sunlight
coming
in
at
the
open
door
through
the
porch
,
and
there
I
see
a
stray
sheep
—
I
don
’
t
mean
a
sinner
,
but
mutton
—
half
making
up
his
mind
to
come
into
the
church
.
I
feel
that
if
I
looked
at
him
any
longer
,
I
might
be
tempted
to
say
something
out
loud
;
and
what
would
become
of
me
then
!
I
look
up
at
the
monumental
tablets
on
the
wall
,
and
try
to
think
of
Mr
.
Bodgers
late
of
this
parish
,
and
what
the
feelings
of
Mrs
.
Bodgers
must
have
been
,
when
affliction
sore
,
long
time
Mr
.
Bodgers
bore
,
and
physicians
were
in
vain
.
I
wonder
whether
they
called
in
Mr
.
Chillip
,
and
he
was
in
vain
;
and
if
so
,
how
he
likes
to
be
reminded
of
it
once
a
week
.
I
look
from
Mr
.
Chillip
,
in
his
Sunday
neckcloth
,
to
the
pulpit
;
and
think
what
a
good
place
it
would
be
to
play
in
,
and
what
a
castle
it
would
make
,
with
another
boy
coming
up
the
stairs
to
attack
it
,
and
having
the
velvet
cushion
with
the
tassels
thrown
down
on
his
head
.
In
time
my
eyes
gradually
shut
up
;
and
,
from
seeming
to
hear
the
clergyman
singing
a
drowsy
song
in
the
heat
,
I
hear
nothing
,
until
I
fall
off
the
seat
with
a
crash
,
and
am
taken
out
,
more
dead
than
alive
,
by
Peggotty
.
And
now
I
see
the
outside
of
our
house
,
with
the
latticed
bedroom
-
windows
standing
open
to
let
in
the
sweet
-
smelling
air
,
and
the
ragged
old
rooks
’
-
nests
still
dangling
in
the
elm
-
trees
at
the
bottom
of
the
front
garden
.
Now
I
am
in
the
garden
at
the
back
,
beyond
the
yard
where
the
empty
pigeon
-
house
and
dog
-
kennel
are
—
a
very
preserve
of
butterflies
,
as
I
remember
it
,
with
a
high
fence
,
and
a
gate
and
padlock
;
where
the
fruit
clusters
on
the
trees
,
riper
and
richer
than
fruit
has
ever
been
since
,
in
any
other
garden
,
and
where
my
mother
gathers
some
in
a
basket
,
while
I
stand
by
,
bolting
furtive
gooseberries
,
and
trying
to
look
unmoved
.
A
great
wind
rises
,
and
the
summer
is
gone
in
a
moment
.
We
are
playing
in
the
winter
twilight
,
dancing
about
the
parlour
.
