David Copperfield

 David Copperfield

he said:
‘I suppose you are a pretty sharp fellow still? Eh,
Brooks?’
‘Aye! He is sharp enough,’ said Mr. Murdstone, impa-
tiently. ‘You had better let him go. He will not thank you
for troubling him.’
On this hint, Mr. Quinion released me, and I made the
best of my way home. Looking back as I turned into the
front garden, I saw Mr. Murdstone leaning against the
wicket of the churchyard, and Mr. Quinion talking to him.
They were both looking after me, and I felt that they were
speaking of me.
Mr. Quinion lay at our house that night. After breakfast,
the next morning, I had put my chair away, and was go-
ing out of the room, when Mr. Murdstone called me back.
He then gravely repaired to another table, where his sister
sat herself at her desk. Mr. Quinion, with his hands in his
pockets, stood looking out of window; and I stood looking
at them all.
‘David,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘to the young this is a world
for action; not for moping and droning in.’

• ‘As you do,’ added his sister.
  ‘Jane Murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. I say, David,
  to the young this is a world for action, and not for moping
  and droning in. It is especially so for a young boy of your
  disposition, which requires a great deal of correcting; and
  to which no greater service can be done than to force it to
  conform to the ways of the working world, and to bend it
  and break it.’