-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Чарльз Диккенс
-
- Дэвид Копперфильд
-
- Стр. 2/820
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
My
father
had
once
been
a
favourite
of
hers
,
I
believe
;
but
she
was
mortally
affronted
by
his
marriage
,
on
the
ground
that
my
mother
was
‘
a
wax
doll
’
.
She
had
never
seen
my
mother
,
but
she
knew
her
to
be
not
yet
twenty
.
My
father
and
Miss
Betsey
never
met
again
.
He
was
double
my
mother
’
s
age
when
he
married
,
and
of
but
a
delicate
constitution
.
He
died
a
year
afterwards
,
and
,
as
I
have
said
,
six
months
before
I
came
into
the
world
.
This
was
the
state
of
matters
,
on
the
afternoon
of
,
what
I
may
be
excused
for
calling
,
that
eventful
and
important
Friday
.
I
can
make
no
claim
therefore
to
have
known
,
at
that
time
,
how
matters
stood
;
or
to
have
any
remembrance
,
founded
on
the
evidence
of
my
own
senses
,
of
what
follows
.
My
mother
was
sitting
by
the
fire
,
but
poorly
in
health
,
and
very
low
in
spirits
,
looking
at
it
through
her
tears
,
and
desponding
heavily
about
herself
and
the
fatherless
little
stranger
,
who
was
already
welcomed
by
some
grosses
of
prophetic
pins
,
in
a
drawer
upstairs
,
to
a
world
not
at
all
excited
on
the
subject
of
his
arrival
;
my
mother
,
I
say
,
was
sitting
by
the
fire
,
that
bright
,
windy
March
afternoon
,
very
timid
and
sad
,
and
very
doubtful
of
ever
coming
alive
out
of
the
trial
that
was
before
her
,
when
,
lifting
her
eyes
as
she
dried
them
,
to
the
window
opposite
,
she
saw
a
strange
lady
coming
up
the
garden
.
My
mother
had
a
sure
foreboding
at
the
second
glance
,
that
it
was
Miss
Betsey
.
The
setting
sun
was
glowing
on
the
strange
lady
,
over
the
garden
-
fence
,
and
she
came
walking
up
to
the
door
with
a
fell
rigidity
of
figure
and
composure
of
countenance
that
could
have
belonged
to
nobody
else
.
When
she
reached
the
house
,
she
gave
another
proof
of
her
identity
.
My
father
had
often
hinted
that
she
seldom
conducted
herself
like
any
ordinary
Christian
;
and
now
,
instead
of
ringing
the
bell
,
she
came
and
looked
in
at
that
identical
window
,
pressing
the
end
of
her
nose
against
the
glass
to
that
extent
,
that
my
poor
dear
mother
used
to
say
it
became
perfectly
flat
and
white
in
a
moment
.
She
gave
my
mother
such
a
turn
,
that
I
have
always
been
convinced
I
am
indebted
to
Miss
Betsey
for
having
been
born
on
a
Friday
.
My
mother
had
left
her
chair
in
her
agitation
,
and
gone
behind
it
in
the
corner
.
Miss
Betsey
,
looking
round
the
room
,
slowly
and
inquiringly
,
began
on
the
other
side
,
and
carried
her
eyes
on
,
like
a
Saracen
’
s
Head
in
a
Dutch
clock
,
until
they
reached
my
mother
.
Then
she
made
a
frown
and
a
gesture
to
my
mother
,
like
one
who
was
accustomed
to
be
obeyed
,
to
come
and
open
the
door
.
My
mother
went
.
‘
Mrs
.
David
Copperfield
,
I
think
,
’
said
Miss
Betsey
;
the
emphasis
referring
,
perhaps
,
to
my
mother
’
s
mourning
weeds
,
and
her
condition
.
