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- Авторы
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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 21/820
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One
autumn
morning
I
was
with
my
mother
in
the
front
garden
,
when
Mr
.
Murdstone
—
I
knew
him
by
that
name
now
—
came
by
,
on
horseback
.
He
reined
up
his
horse
to
salute
my
mother
,
and
said
he
was
going
to
Lowestoft
to
see
some
friends
who
were
there
with
a
yacht
,
and
merrily
proposed
to
take
me
on
the
saddle
before
him
if
I
would
like
the
ride
.
The
air
was
so
clear
and
pleasant
,
and
the
horse
seemed
to
like
the
idea
of
the
ride
so
much
himself
,
as
he
stood
snorting
and
pawing
at
the
garden
-
gate
,
that
I
had
a
great
desire
to
go
.
So
I
was
sent
upstairs
to
Peggotty
to
be
made
spruce
;
and
in
the
meantime
Mr
.
Murdstone
dismounted
,
and
,
with
his
horse
’
s
bridle
drawn
over
his
arm
,
walked
slowly
up
and
down
on
the
outer
side
of
the
sweetbriar
fence
,
while
my
mother
walked
slowly
up
and
down
on
the
inner
to
keep
him
company
.
I
recollect
Peggotty
and
I
peeping
out
at
them
from
my
little
window
;
I
recollect
how
closely
they
seemed
to
be
examining
the
sweetbriar
between
them
,
as
they
strolled
along
;
and
how
,
from
being
in
a
perfectly
angelic
temper
,
Peggotty
turned
cross
in
a
moment
,
and
brushed
my
hair
the
wrong
way
,
excessively
hard
.
Mr
.
Murdstone
and
I
were
soon
off
,
and
trotting
along
on
the
green
turf
by
the
side
of
the
road
.
He
held
me
quite
easily
with
one
arm
,
and
I
don
’
t
think
I
was
restless
usually
;
but
I
could
not
make
up
my
mind
to
sit
in
front
of
him
without
turning
my
head
sometimes
,
and
looking
up
in
his
face
.
He
had
that
kind
of
shallow
black
eye
—
I
want
a
better
word
to
express
an
eye
that
has
no
depth
in
it
to
be
looked
into
—
which
,
when
it
is
abstracted
,
seems
from
some
peculiarity
of
light
to
be
disfigured
,
for
a
moment
at
a
time
,
by
a
cast
.
Several
times
when
I
glanced
at
him
,
I
observed
that
appearance
with
a
sort
of
awe
,
and
wondered
what
he
was
thinking
about
so
closely
.
His
hair
and
whiskers
were
blacker
and
thicker
,
looked
at
so
near
,
than
even
I
had
given
them
credit
for
being
.
A
squareness
about
the
lower
part
of
his
face
,
and
the
dotted
indication
of
the
strong
black
beard
he
shaved
close
every
day
,
reminded
me
of
the
wax
-
work
that
had
travelled
into
our
neighbourhood
some
half
-
a
-
year
before
.
This
,
his
regular
eyebrows
,
and
the
rich
white
,
and
black
,
and
brown
,
of
his
complexion
—
confound
his
complexion
,
and
his
memory
!
—
made
me
think
him
,
in
spite
of
my
misgivings
,
a
very
handsome
man
.
I
have
no
doubt
that
my
poor
dear
mother
thought
him
so
too
.
We
went
to
an
hotel
by
the
sea
,
where
two
gentlemen
were
smoking
cigars
in
a
room
by
themselves
.
Each
of
them
was
lying
on
at
least
four
chairs
,
and
had
a
large
rough
jacket
on
.
In
a
corner
was
a
heap
of
coats
and
boat
-
cloaks
,
and
a
flag
,
all
bundled
up
together
.
They
both
rolled
on
to
their
feet
in
an
untidy
sort
of
manner
,
when
we
came
in
,
and
said
,
‘
Halloa
,
Murdstone
!
We
thought
you
were
dead
!
’
‘
Not
yet
,
’
said
Mr
.
Murdstone
.
‘
And
who
’
s
this
shaver
?
’
said
one
of
the
gentlemen
,
taking
hold
of
me
.
‘
That
’
s
Davy
,
’
returned
Mr
.
Murdstone
.
‘
Davy
who
?
’
said
the
gentleman
.
‘
Jones
?
’
