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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 15/820
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When
my
mother
is
out
of
breath
and
rests
herself
in
an
elbow
-
chair
,
I
watch
her
winding
her
bright
curls
round
her
fingers
,
and
straitening
her
waist
,
and
nobody
knows
better
than
I
do
that
she
likes
to
look
so
well
,
and
is
proud
of
being
so
pretty
.
That
is
among
my
very
earliest
impressions
.
That
,
and
a
sense
that
we
were
both
a
little
afraid
of
Peggotty
,
and
submitted
ourselves
in
most
things
to
her
direction
,
were
among
the
first
opinions
—
if
they
may
be
so
called
—
that
I
ever
derived
from
what
I
saw
.
Peggotty
and
I
were
sitting
one
night
by
the
parlour
fire
,
alone
.
I
had
been
reading
to
Peggotty
about
crocodiles
.
I
must
have
read
very
perspicuously
,
or
the
poor
soul
must
have
been
deeply
interested
,
for
I
remember
she
had
a
cloudy
impression
,
after
I
had
done
,
that
they
were
a
sort
of
vegetable
.
I
was
tired
of
reading
,
and
dead
sleepy
;
but
having
leave
,
as
a
high
treat
,
to
sit
up
until
my
mother
came
home
from
spending
the
evening
at
a
neighbour
’
s
,
I
would
rather
have
died
upon
my
post
(
of
course
)
than
have
gone
to
bed
.
I
had
reached
that
stage
of
sleepiness
when
Peggotty
seemed
to
swell
and
grow
immensely
large
.
I
propped
my
eyelids
open
with
my
two
forefingers
,
and
looked
perseveringly
at
her
as
she
sat
at
work
;
at
the
little
bit
of
wax
-
candle
she
kept
for
her
thread
—
how
old
it
looked
,
being
so
wrinkled
in
all
directions
!
—
at
the
little
house
with
a
thatched
roof
,
where
the
yard
-
measure
lived
;
at
her
work
-
box
with
a
sliding
lid
,
with
a
view
of
St
.
Paul
’
s
Cathedral
(
with
a
pink
dome
)
painted
on
the
top
;
at
the
brass
thimble
on
her
finger
;
at
herself
,
whom
I
thought
lovely
.
I
felt
so
sleepy
,
that
I
knew
if
I
lost
sight
of
anything
for
a
moment
,
I
was
gone
.
‘
Peggotty
,
’
says
I
,
suddenly
,
‘
were
you
ever
married
?
’
‘
Lord
,
Master
Davy
,
’
replied
Peggotty
.
‘
What
’
s
put
marriage
in
your
head
?
’
She
answered
with
such
a
start
,
that
it
quite
awoke
me
.
And
then
she
stopped
in
her
work
,
and
looked
at
me
,
with
her
needle
drawn
out
to
its
thread
’
s
length
.
‘
But
WERE
you
ever
married
,
Peggotty
?
’
says
I
.
‘
You
are
a
very
handsome
woman
,
an
’
t
you
?
’
I
thought
her
in
a
different
style
from
my
mother
,
certainly
;
but
of
another
school
of
beauty
,
I
considered
her
a
perfect
example
.
There
was
a
red
velvet
footstool
in
the
best
parlour
,
on
which
my
mother
had
painted
a
nosegay
.
The
ground
-
work
of
that
stool
,
and
Peggotty
’
s
complexion
appeared
to
me
to
be
one
and
the
same
thing
.
The
stool
was
smooth
,
and
Peggotty
was
rough
,
but
that
made
no
difference
.
‘
Me
handsome
,
Davy
!
’
said
Peggotty
.
‘
Lawk
,
no
,
my
dear
!
But
what
put
marriage
in
your
head
?
’
