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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 133/761
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As
he
stretched
out
his
length
upon
it
,
with
a
ragged
handkerchief
bound
round
his
wicked
head
,
and
only
his
wicked
head
showing
above
the
bedclothes
,
John
Baptist
was
rather
strongly
reminded
of
what
had
so
very
nearly
happened
to
prevent
the
moustache
from
any
more
going
up
as
it
did
,
and
the
nose
from
any
more
coming
down
as
it
did
.
‘
Shaken
out
of
destiny
’
s
dice
-
box
again
into
your
company
,
eh
?
By
Heaven
!
So
much
the
better
for
you
.
You
’
ll
profit
by
it
.
I
shall
need
a
long
rest
.
Let
me
sleep
in
the
morning
.
’
John
Baptist
replied
that
he
should
sleep
as
long
as
he
would
,
and
wishing
him
a
happy
night
,
put
out
the
candle
.
One
might
have
supposed
that
the
next
proceeding
of
the
Italian
would
have
been
to
undress
;
but
he
did
exactly
the
reverse
,
and
dressed
himself
from
head
to
foot
,
saving
his
shoes
.
When
he
had
so
done
,
he
lay
down
upon
his
bed
with
some
of
its
coverings
over
him
,
and
his
coat
still
tied
round
his
neck
,
to
get
through
the
night
.
When
he
started
up
,
the
Godfather
Break
of
Day
was
peeping
at
its
namesake
.
He
rose
,
took
his
shoes
in
his
hand
,
turned
the
key
in
the
door
with
great
caution
,
and
crept
downstairs
.
Nothing
was
astir
there
but
the
smell
of
coffee
,
wine
,
tobacco
,
and
syrups
;
and
madame
’
s
little
counter
looked
ghastly
enough
.
But
he
had
paid
madame
his
little
note
at
it
over
night
,
and
wanted
to
see
nobody
—
wanted
nothing
but
to
get
on
his
shoes
and
his
knapsack
,
open
the
door
,
and
run
away
.
He
prospered
in
his
object
.
No
movement
or
voice
was
heard
when
he
opened
the
door
;
no
wicked
head
tied
up
in
a
ragged
handkerchief
looked
out
of
the
upper
window
When
the
sun
had
raised
his
full
disc
above
the
flat
line
of
the
horizon
,
and
was
striking
fire
out
of
the
long
muddy
vista
of
paved
road
with
its
weary
avenue
of
little
trees
,
a
black
speck
moved
along
the
road
and
splashed
among
the
flaming
pools
of
rain
-
water
,
which
black
speck
was
John
Baptist
Cavalletto
running
away
from
his
patron
.
In
London
itself
,
though
in
the
old
rustic
road
towards
a
suburb
of
note
where
in
the
days
of
William
Shakespeare
,
author
and
stage
-
player
,
there
were
Royal
hunting
-
seats
—
howbeit
no
sport
is
left
there
now
but
for
hunters
of
men
—
Bleeding
Heart
Yard
was
to
be
found
;
a
place
much
changed
in
feature
and
in
fortune
,
yet
with
some
relish
of
ancient
greatness
about
it
.
Two
or
three
mighty
stacks
of
chimneys
,
and
a
few
large
dark
rooms
which
had
escaped
being
walled
and
subdivided
out
of
the
recognition
of
their
old
proportions
,
gave
the
Yard
a
character
.
It
was
inhabited
by
poor
people
,
who
set
up
their
rest
among
its
faded
glories
,
as
Arabs
of
the
desert
pitch
their
tents
among
the
fallen
stones
of
the
Pyramids
;
but
there
was
a
family
sentimental
feeling
prevalent
in
the
Yard
,
that
it
had
a
character
.
As
if
the
aspiring
city
had
become
puffed
up
in
the
very
ground
on
which
it
stood
,
the
ground
had
so
risen
about
Bleeding
Heart
Yard
that
you
got
into
it
down
a
flight
of
steps
which
formed
no
part
of
the
original
approach
,
and
got
out
of
it
by
a
low
gateway
into
a
maze
of
shabby
streets
,
which
went
about
and
about
,
tortuously
ascending
to
the
level
again
.
At
this
end
of
the
Yard
and
over
the
gateway
,
was
the
factory
of
Daniel
Doyce
,
often
heavily
beating
like
a
bleeding
heart
of
iron
,
with
the
clink
of
metal
upon
metal
.
The
opinion
of
the
Yard
was
divided
respecting
the
derivation
of
its
name
.
The
more
practical
of
its
inmates
abided
by
the
tradition
of
a
murder
;
the
gentler
and
more
imaginative
inhabitants
,
including
the
whole
of
the
tender
sex
,
were
loyal
to
the
legend
of
a
young
lady
of
former
times
closely
imprisoned
in
her
chamber
by
a
cruel
father
for
remaining
true
to
her
own
true
love
,
and
refusing
to
marry
the
suitor
he
chose
for
her
.
The
legend
related
how
that
the
young
lady
used
to
be
seen
up
at
her
window
behind
the
bars
,
murmuring
a
love
-
lorn
song
of
which
the
burden
was
,
‘
Bleeding
Heart
,
Bleeding
Heart
,
bleeding
away
,
’
until
she
died
.
It
was
objected
by
the
murderous
party
that
this
Refrain
was
notoriously
the
invention
of
a
tambour
-
worker
,
a
spinster
and
romantic
,
still
lodging
in
the
Yard
.
But
,
forasmuch
as
all
favourite
legends
must
be
associated
with
the
affections
,
and
as
many
more
people
fall
in
love
than
commit
murder
—
which
it
may
be
hoped
,
howsoever
bad
we
are
,
will
continue
until
the
end
of
the
world
to
be
the
dispensation
under
which
we
shall
live
—
the
Bleeding
Heart
,
Bleeding
Heart
,
bleeding
away
story
,
carried
the
day
by
a
great
majority
.
Neither
party
would
listen
to
the
antiquaries
who
delivered
learned
lectures
in
the
neighbourhood
,
showing
the
Bleeding
Heart
to
have
been
the
heraldic
cognisance
of
the
old
family
to
whom
the
property
had
once
belonged
.
And
,
considering
that
the
hour
-
glass
they
turned
from
year
to
year
was
filled
with
the
earthiest
and
coarsest
sand
,
the
Bleeding
Heart
Yarders
had
reason
enough
for
objecting
to
be
despoiled
of
the
one
little
golden
grain
of
poetry
that
sparkled
in
it
.
