Bokelskere.no

Yarmouth [...] looked rather spongy and soppy, I thought, as I carried my eye over the great dull waste that lay across the river; and I could not help wondering, if the world were really as round as my geography book said, how any part of it came to be so flat. But I reflected that Yarmouth might be situated at one of the poles; which would account for it.

They left me, during this time, with a very nice man with with a very large head of red hair and a very small shiny hat upon it, who had got a cross-barred shirt or waistcoat on, with 'Skylark' in capital letetrs across the chest. I thought it was his name; and that as he lived on board ship and hadn't a street door to put his name on, he put it there instead; but when I called him Mr Skylark, he said it meant the vessel.

All the time we were out, the two gentlemen smoked incessantly - which, I thought, if I might judge from the smell of their rough coats, they must have been doing, ever since the coats had first come home from the tailor's.

'That's Davy,' returned Mr Murdstone.
'Davy who?' said the gentleman. 'Jones?'
'Copperfield,' said Mr Murdstone.
'What! Bewitching Mrs Copperfield's encumbrance?' cried the gentleman. The pretty little widow?'

One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front garden, when Mr Murdstone - I knew him by that name noe - came by, on horseback.

‘Now let me hear more about the Crorkindills,’ said Peggotty, who was not quite right in the name yet, […].

I had been reading to Peggotty about crocodiles. I must have read very perspicuosly, or the poor soul must have been deeply interested, for I remember she had a cloudy impression, after I had done, that they were a sort of vegetable.

I look at the sunlight coming in at the open [church] door through the porch, and there I see a stray sheep – I don’t mean a sinner, but mutton – half making up his mind to come into the church.

The first objects that assume a distinct presence before me, as I look far back, into the blank of my infancy, are my mother with her pretty hair and youthful shape, and Peggotty with no shape at all, and eyes so dark that they seemed to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, and cheeks and arms so hard and red that I wondered the birds didn’t peck her in preference to apples.

‘And she. How is she?’ said my aunt, sharply.
Mr Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and looked at my aunt like an amiable bird.
‘The baby,’ said my aunt. ‘How is she?’
‘Ma’am,’ returned Mr Chillip, ‘I apprehended you had known. It’s a boy.’
My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the strings, in the manner of a sling, and aimed a blow at Mr Chillip’s head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back.