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Updated: June 28, 2025


He received me with absolute enthusiasm. He was too rheumatic to be shaken hands with, but he begged me to shake the tassel on the top of his nightcap, which I did most cordially. When I sat down by the side of the bed, he said that it did him a world of good to feel as if he was driving me on the Blunderstone road again.

It has no more music in its voice than a tin kettle; but what jollier sound is there on a late February morning than the splendid hubbub of a rookery when the slovenly nests are being built in the naked and swaying branches of the elms? Betsy Trotwood was angry with David Copperfield's father because he called his house Blunderstone Rookery. "Rookery, indeed!" she said.

Miss Murdstone's heavy eyebrows followed me to the door I say her eyebrows rather than her eyes, because they were much more important in her face and she looked so exactly as she used to look, at about that hour of the morning, in our parlour at Blunderstone, that I could have fancied I had been breaking down in my lessons again, and that the dead weight on my mind was that horrible old spelling-book, with oval woodcuts, shaped, to my youthful fancy, like the glasses out of spectacles.

It was autumn, when there were no debates to vex the evening air; and I remember how the leaves smelt like our garden at Blunderstone as we trod them under foot, and how the old, unhappy feeling, seemed to go by, on the sighing wind. It was twilight when we reached the cottage. Mrs. Strong was just coming out of the garden, where Mr.

"I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk where you came, on the night when I was born, and saw my dear mama. I have been very unhappy since she died. I have been slighted and taught nothing, and thrown upon myself, and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away to you.

'EH? exclaimed Miss Betsey, in a tone of amazement I have never heard approached. 'If you please, aunt, I am your nephew. 'Oh, Lord! said my aunt. And sat flat down in the garden-path. 'I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk where you came, on the night when I was born, and saw my dear mama. I have been very unhappy since she died.

Over at Blunderstone it was, of course. Dear me! And how have you been since? Very well, I thanked him, as I hoped he had been too. 'Oh! nothing to grumble at, you know, said Mr. Omer. 'I find my breath gets short, but it seldom gets longer as a man gets older. I take it as it comes, and make the most of it. That's the best way, ain't it? Mr.

Another cause of our being sometimes apart, was, that I had naturally an interest in going over to Blunderstone, and revisiting the old familiar scenes of my childhood; while Steerforth, after being there once, had naturally no great interest in going there again.

Steerforth was pretty sure to be there expecting me, and we went on together through the frosty air and gathering fog towards the twinkling lights of the town. One dark evening, when I was later than usual for I had, that day, been making my parting visit to Blunderstone, as we were now about to return home I found him alone in Mr. Peggotty's house, sitting thoughtfully before the fire.

What else do I remember? let me see. There comes to me a vision of our home, Blunderstone Rookery, with its ground-floor kitchen, and long passage leading from it to the front door. A dark store-room opens out of the kitchen, and in it there is the smell of soap, pickles, pepper, candles, and coffee, all at one whiff.

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