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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 68/820
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I
said
,
‘
Near
London
,
’
which
was
all
I
knew
.
‘
Oh
!
my
eye
!
’
he
said
,
looking
very
low
-
spirited
,
‘
I
am
sorry
for
that
.
’
‘
Why
?
’
I
asked
him
.
‘
Oh
,
Lord
!
’
he
said
,
shaking
his
head
,
‘
that
’
s
the
school
where
they
broke
the
boy
’
s
ribs
—
two
ribs
—
a
little
boy
he
was
.
I
should
say
he
was
—
let
me
see
—
how
old
are
you
,
about
?
’
I
told
him
between
eight
and
nine
.
‘
That
’
s
just
his
age
,
’
he
said
.
‘
He
was
eight
years
and
six
months
old
when
they
broke
his
first
rib
;
eight
years
and
eight
months
old
when
they
broke
his
second
,
and
did
for
him
.
’
I
could
not
disguise
from
myself
,
or
from
the
waiter
,
that
this
was
an
uncomfortable
coincidence
,
and
inquired
how
it
was
done
.
His
answer
was
not
cheering
to
my
spirits
,
for
it
consisted
of
two
dismal
words
,
‘
With
whopping
.
’
The
blowing
of
the
coach
-
horn
in
the
yard
was
a
seasonable
diversion
,
which
made
me
get
up
and
hesitatingly
inquire
,
in
the
mingled
pride
and
diffidence
of
having
a
purse
(
which
I
took
out
of
my
pocket
)
,
if
there
were
anything
to
pay
.
‘
There
’
s
a
sheet
of
letter
-
paper
,
’
he
returned
.
‘
Did
you
ever
buy
a
sheet
of
letter
-
paper
?
’
