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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Дэвид Копперфильд
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- Стр. 334/820
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How
somebody
,
lying
in
my
bed
,
lay
saying
and
doing
all
this
over
again
,
at
cross
purposes
,
in
a
feverish
dream
all
night
—
the
bed
a
rocking
sea
that
was
never
still
!
How
,
as
that
somebody
slowly
settled
down
into
myself
,
did
I
begin
to
parch
,
and
feel
as
if
my
outer
covering
of
skin
were
a
hard
board
;
my
tongue
the
bottom
of
an
empty
kettle
,
furred
with
long
service
,
and
burning
up
over
a
slow
fire
;
the
palms
of
my
hands
,
hot
plates
of
metal
which
no
ice
could
cool
!
But
the
agony
of
mind
,
the
remorse
,
and
shame
I
felt
when
I
became
conscious
next
day
!
My
horror
of
having
committed
a
thousand
offences
I
had
forgotten
,
and
which
nothing
could
ever
expiate
—
my
recollection
of
that
indelible
look
which
Agnes
had
given
me
—
the
torturing
impossibility
of
communicating
with
her
,
not
knowing
,
Beast
that
I
was
,
how
she
came
to
be
in
London
,
or
where
she
stayed
-
my
disgust
of
the
very
sight
of
the
room
where
the
revel
had
been
held
—
my
racking
head
—
the
smell
of
smoke
,
the
sight
of
glasses
,
the
impossibility
of
going
out
,
or
even
getting
up
!
Oh
,
what
a
day
it
was
!
Oh
,
what
an
evening
,
when
I
sat
down
by
my
fire
to
a
basin
of
mutton
broth
,
dimpled
all
over
with
fat
,
and
thought
I
was
going
the
way
of
my
predecessor
,
and
should
succeed
to
his
dismal
story
as
well
as
to
his
chambers
,
and
had
half
a
mind
to
rush
express
to
Dover
and
reveal
all
!
What
an
evening
,
when
Mrs
Crupp
,
coming
in
to
take
away
the
broth
-
basin
,
produced
one
kidney
on
a
cheese
-
plate
as
the
entire
remains
of
yesterday
’
s
feast
,
and
I
was
really
inclined
to
fall
upon
her
nankeen
breast
and
say
,
in
heartfelt
penitence
,
‘
Oh
,
Mrs
.
Crupp
,
Mrs
.
Crupp
,
never
mind
the
broken
meats
!
I
am
very
miserable
!
’
—
only
that
I
doubted
,
even
at
that
pass
,
if
Mrs
.
Crupp
were
quite
the
sort
of
woman
to
confide
in
!
Iwas
going
out
at
my
door
on
the
morning
after
that
deplorable
day
of
headache
,
sickness
,
and
repentance
,
with
an
odd
confusion
in
my
mind
relative
to
the
date
of
my
dinner
-
party
,
as
if
a
body
of
Titans
had
taken
an
enormous
lever
and
pushed
the
day
before
yesterday
some
months
back
,
when
I
saw
a
ticket
-
porter
coming
upstairs
,
with
a
letter
in
his
hand
.
He
was
taking
his
time
about
his
errand
,
then
;
but
when
he
saw
me
on
the
top
of
the
staircase
,
looking
at
him
over
the
banisters
,
he
swung
into
a
trot
,
and
came
up
panting
as
if
he
had
run
himself
into
a
state
of
exhaustion
.
‘
T
.
Copperfield
,
Esquire
,
’
said
the
ticket
-
porter
,
touching
his
hat
with
his
little
cane
.
I
could
scarcely
lay
claim
to
the
name
:
I
was
so
disturbed
by
the
conviction
that
the
letter
came
from
Agnes
.
However
,
I
told
him
I
was
T
.
Copperfield
,
Esquire
,
and
he
believed
it
,
and
gave
me
the
letter
,
which
he
said
required
an
answer
.
I
shut
him
out
on
the
landing
to
wait
for
the
answer
,
and
went
into
my
chambers
again
,
in
such
a
nervous
state
that
I
was
fain
to
lay
the
letter
down
on
my
breakfast
table
,
and
familiarize
myself
with
the
outside
of
it
a
little
,
before
I
could
resolve
to
break
the
seal
.
I
found
,
when
I
did
open
it
,
that
it
was
a
very
kind
note
,
containing
no
reference
to
my
condition
at
the
theatre
.
All
it
said
was
,
‘
My
dear
Trotwood
.
I
am
staying
at
the
house
of
papa
’
s
agent
,
Mr
.
Waterbrook
,
in
Ely
Place
,
Holborn
.
Will
you
come
and
see
me
today
,
at
any
time
you
like
to
appoint
?
Ever
yours
affectionately
,
Agnes
.
’
It
took
me
such
a
long
time
to
write
an
answer
at
all
to
my
satisfaction
,
that
I
don
’
t
know
what
the
ticket
-
porter
can
have
thought
,
unless
he
thought
I
was
learning
to
write
.
I
must
have
written
half
-
a
-
dozen
answers
at
least
.
I
began
one
,
‘
How
can
I
ever
hope
,
my
dear
Agnes
,
to
efface
from
your
remembrance
the
disgusting
impression
’
—
there
I
didn
’
t
like
it
,
and
then
I
tore
it
up
.
I
began
another
,
‘
Shakespeare
has
observed
,
my
dear
Agnes
,
how
strange
it
is
that
a
man
should
put
an
enemy
into
his
mouth
’
—
that
reminded
me
of
Markham
,
and
it
got
no
farther
.
I
even
tried
poetry
.
I
began
one
note
,
in
a
six
-
syllable
line
,
‘
Oh
,
do
not
remember
’
—
but
that
associated
itself
with
the
fifth
of
November
,
and
became
an
absurdity
.
After
many
attempts
,
I
wrote
,
‘
My
dear
Agnes
.
Your
letter
is
like
you
,
and
what
could
I
say
of
it
that
would
be
higher
praise
than
that
?
I
will
come
at
four
o
’
clock
.
Affectionately
and
sorrowfully
,
T
.
C
.
’
With
this
missive
(
which
I
was
in
twenty
minds
at
once
about
recalling
,
as
soon
as
it
was
out
of
my
hands
)
,
the
ticket
-
porter
at
last
departed
.
