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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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Often
and
often
we
pursued
these
debates
until
the
clock
pointed
to
midnight
,
and
the
candles
were
burning
down
.
The
result
of
so
much
good
practice
was
,
that
by
and
by
I
began
to
keep
pace
with
Traddles
pretty
well
,
and
should
have
been
quite
triumphant
if
I
had
had
the
least
idea
what
my
notes
were
about
.
But
,
as
to
reading
them
after
I
had
got
them
,
I
might
as
well
have
copied
the
Chinese
inscriptions
of
an
immense
collection
of
tea
-
chests
,
or
the
golden
characters
on
all
the
great
red
and
green
bottles
in
the
chemists
’
shops
!
There
was
nothing
for
it
,
but
to
turn
back
and
begin
all
over
again
.
It
was
very
hard
,
but
I
turned
back
,
though
with
a
heavy
heart
,
and
began
laboriously
and
methodically
to
plod
over
the
same
tedious
ground
at
a
snail
’
s
pace
;
stopping
to
examine
minutely
every
speck
in
the
way
,
on
all
sides
,
and
making
the
most
desperate
efforts
to
know
these
elusive
characters
by
sight
wherever
I
met
them
.
I
was
always
punctual
at
the
office
;
at
the
Doctor
’
s
too
:
and
I
really
did
work
,
as
the
common
expression
is
,
like
a
cart
-
horse
.
One
day
,
when
I
went
to
the
Commons
as
usual
,
I
found
Mr
.
Spenlow
in
the
doorway
looking
extremely
grave
,
and
talking
to
himself
.
As
he
was
in
the
habit
of
complaining
of
pains
in
his
head
—
he
had
naturally
a
short
throat
,
and
I
do
seriously
believe
he
over
-
starched
himself
—
I
was
at
first
alarmed
by
the
idea
that
he
was
not
quite
right
in
that
direction
;
but
he
soon
relieved
my
uneasiness
.
Instead
of
returning
my
‘
Good
morning
’
with
his
usual
affability
,
he
looked
at
me
in
a
distant
,
ceremonious
manner
,
and
coldly
requested
me
to
accompany
him
to
a
certain
coffee
-
house
,
which
,
in
those
days
,
had
a
door
opening
into
the
Commons
,
just
within
the
little
archway
in
St
.
Paul
’
s
Churchyard
.
I
complied
,
in
a
very
uncomfortable
state
,
and
with
a
warm
shooting
all
over
me
,
as
if
my
apprehensions
were
breaking
out
into
buds
.
When
I
allowed
him
to
go
on
a
little
before
,
on
account
of
the
narrowness
of
the
way
,
I
observed
that
he
carried
his
head
with
a
lofty
air
that
was
particularly
unpromising
;
and
my
mind
misgave
me
that
he
had
found
out
about
my
darling
Dora
.
If
I
had
not
guessed
this
,
on
the
way
to
the
coffee
-
house
,
I
could
hardly
have
failed
to
know
what
was
the
matter
when
I
followed
him
into
an
upstairs
room
,
and
found
Miss
Murdstone
there
,
supported
by
a
background
of
sideboard
,
on
which
were
several
inverted
tumblers
sustaining
lemons
,
and
two
of
those
extraordinary
boxes
,
all
corners
and
flutings
,
for
sticking
knives
and
forks
in
,
which
,
happily
for
mankind
,
are
now
obsolete
.
Miss
Murdstone
gave
me
her
chilly
finger
-
nails
,
and
sat
severely
rigid
.
Mr
.
Spenlow
shut
the
door
,
motioned
me
to
a
chair
,
and
stood
on
the
hearth
-
rug
in
front
of
the
fireplace
.
‘
Have
the
goodness
to
show
Mr
.
Copperfield
,
’
said
Mr
.
Spenlow
,
what
you
have
in
your
reticule
,
Miss
Murdstone
.
’
I
believe
it
was
the
old
identical
steel
-
clasped
reticule
of
my
childhood
,
that
shut
up
like
a
bite
.
Compressing
her
lips
,
in
sympathy
with
the
snap
,
Miss
Murdstone
opened
it
—
opening
her
mouth
a
little
at
the
same
time
—
and
produced
my
last
letter
to
Dora
,
teeming
with
expressions
of
devoted
affection
.
‘
I
believe
that
is
your
writing
,
Mr
.
Copperfield
?
’
said
Mr
.
Spenlow
.
