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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 817/820
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What
faces
are
the
most
distinct
to
me
in
the
fleeting
crowd
?
Lo
,
these
;
all
turning
to
me
as
I
ask
my
thoughts
the
question
!
Here
is
my
aunt
,
in
stronger
spectacles
,
an
old
woman
of
four
-
score
years
and
more
,
but
upright
yet
,
and
a
steady
walker
of
six
miles
at
a
stretch
in
winter
weather
.
Always
with
her
,
here
comes
Peggotty
,
my
good
old
nurse
,
likewise
in
spectacles
,
accustomed
to
do
needle
-
work
at
night
very
close
to
the
lamp
,
but
never
sitting
down
to
it
without
a
bit
of
wax
candle
,
a
yard
-
measure
in
a
little
house
,
and
a
work
-
box
with
a
picture
of
St
.
Paul
’
s
upon
the
lid
.
The
cheeks
and
arms
of
Peggotty
,
so
hard
and
red
in
my
childish
days
,
when
I
wondered
why
the
birds
didn
’
t
peck
her
in
preference
to
apples
,
are
shrivelled
now
;
and
her
eyes
,
that
used
to
darken
their
whole
neighbourhood
in
her
face
,
are
fainter
(
though
they
glitter
still
)
;
but
her
rough
forefinger
,
which
I
once
associated
with
a
pocket
nutmeg
-
grater
,
is
just
the
same
,
and
when
I
see
my
least
child
catching
at
it
as
it
totters
from
my
aunt
to
her
,
I
think
of
our
little
parlour
at
home
,
when
I
could
scarcely
walk
.
My
aunt
’
s
old
disappointment
is
set
right
,
now
.
She
is
godmother
to
a
real
living
Betsey
Trotwood
;
and
Dora
(
the
next
in
order
)
says
she
spoils
her
.
There
is
something
bulky
in
Peggotty
’
s
pocket
.
It
is
nothing
smaller
than
the
Crocodile
Book
,
which
is
in
rather
a
dilapidated
condition
by
this
time
,
with
divers
of
the
leaves
torn
and
stitched
across
,
but
which
Peggotty
exhibits
to
the
children
as
a
precious
relic
.
I
find
it
very
curious
to
see
my
own
infant
face
,
looking
up
at
me
from
the
Crocodile
stories
;
and
to
be
reminded
by
it
of
my
old
acquaintance
Brooks
of
Sheffield
.
Among
my
boys
,
this
summer
holiday
time
,
I
see
an
old
man
making
giant
kites
,
and
gazing
at
them
in
the
air
,
with
a
delight
for
which
there
are
no
words
.
He
greets
me
rapturously
,
and
whispers
,
with
many
nods
and
winks
,
‘
Trotwood
,
you
will
be
glad
to
hear
that
I
shall
finish
the
Memorial
when
I
have
nothing
else
to
do
,
and
that
your
aunt
’
s
the
most
extraordinary
woman
in
the
world
,
sir
!
’
Who
is
this
bent
lady
,
supporting
herself
by
a
stick
,
and
showing
me
a
countenance
in
which
there
are
some
traces
of
old
pride
and
beauty
,
feebly
contending
with
a
querulous
,
imbecile
,
fretful
wandering
of
the
mind
?
She
is
in
a
garden
;
and
near
her
stands
a
sharp
,
dark
,
withered
woman
,
with
a
white
scar
on
her
lip
.
Let
me
hear
what
they
say
.
‘
Rosa
,
I
have
forgotten
this
gentleman
’
s
name
.
’
Rosa
bends
over
her
,
and
calls
to
her
,
‘
Mr
.
Copperfield
.
’
