My name is Betsey Trotwood Copperfield.

I was conceived in the brain of Mr. Charles Dickens and born in the heart of Miss Betsey Trotwood, my beloved aunt, in 1849, more than 160 years ago. As often happens, my father, if so I may designate the esteemed Mr. Dickens, more or less abandoned me once my brother was born. But my Aunt Betsey, with whom i reside, has remained as steady and true as steel.

Because of my somewhat evanescent nature, I’m hard to pinpoint. I haunt the pages of David Copperfield, flitting here and there, at times vivid with life, at other times vanishing from the page. My life is a quiet one. When I’m feeling strong, my aunt’s good friend Mr. Dick allows me to fly his kite with him, and I’ve been known, in defense of Aunt Betsey’s garden, to chase a donkey or two.

Mostly though, I keep to my room, reading and writing. I am fond of the novels of Mr. Dickens and often visit the women and children in them. Due to my father’s limiting masculine perspective, I believe I sometimes understand them better than he does, as I do his female relations and friends.

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