David Copperfield

by Charles Dickens

WHETHER I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

I am sure my fancy raised up something round that blue-eyed mite of a child, which etherealised, and made a very angel of her. If, any sunny forenoon, she had spread a little pair of wings, and flown away before my eyes, I don’t think I should have regarded it as much more than I had had reason to expect.

He was a limp, delicate-looking gentleman, I thought, with a good deal of nose, and a way of carrying his head on one side, as if it were a little too heavy for him.