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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Стр. 140/761
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There
,
he
left
his
Principal
alone
;
to
wonder
,
as
he
rode
away
,
how
many
thousand
Plornishes
there
might
be
within
a
day
or
two
’
s
journey
of
the
Circumlocution
Office
,
playing
sundry
curious
variations
on
the
same
tune
,
which
were
not
known
by
ear
in
that
glorious
institution
.
The
mention
of
Mr
Casby
again
revived
in
Clennam
’
s
memory
the
smouldering
embers
of
curiosity
and
interest
which
Mrs
Flintwinch
had
fanned
on
the
night
of
his
arrival
.
Flora
Casby
had
been
the
beloved
of
his
boyhood
;
and
Flora
was
the
daughter
and
only
child
of
wooden
-
headed
old
Christopher
(
so
he
was
still
occasionally
spoken
of
by
some
irreverent
spirits
who
had
had
dealings
with
him
,
and
in
whom
familiarity
had
bred
its
proverbial
result
perhaps
)
,
who
was
reputed
to
be
rich
in
weekly
tenants
,
and
to
get
a
good
quantity
of
blood
out
of
the
stones
of
several
unpromising
courts
and
alleys
.
After
some
days
of
inquiry
and
research
,
Arthur
Clennam
became
convinced
that
the
case
of
the
Father
of
the
Marshalsea
was
indeed
a
hopeless
one
,
and
sorrowfully
resigned
the
idea
of
helping
him
to
freedom
again
.
He
had
no
hopeful
inquiry
to
make
at
present
,
concerning
Little
Dorrit
either
;
but
he
argued
with
himself
that
it
might
—
for
anything
he
knew
—
it
might
be
serviceable
to
the
poor
child
,
if
he
renewed
this
acquaintance
.
It
is
hardly
necessary
to
add
that
beyond
all
doubt
he
would
have
presented
himself
at
Mr
Casby
’
s
door
,
if
there
had
been
no
Little
Dorrit
in
existence
;
for
we
all
know
how
we
all
deceive
ourselves
—
that
is
to
say
,
how
people
in
general
,
our
profounder
selves
excepted
,
deceive
themselves
—
as
to
motives
of
action
.
With
a
comfortable
impression
upon
him
,
and
quite
an
honest
one
in
its
way
,
that
he
was
still
patronising
Little
Dorrit
in
doing
what
had
no
reference
to
her
,
he
found
himself
one
afternoon
at
the
corner
of
Mr
Casby
’
s
street
.
Mr
Casby
lived
in
a
street
in
the
Gray
’
s
Inn
Road
,
which
had
set
off
from
that
thoroughfare
with
the
intention
of
running
at
one
heat
down
into
the
valley
,
and
up
again
to
the
top
of
Pentonville
Hill
;
but
which
had
run
itself
out
of
breath
in
twenty
yards
,
and
had
stood
still
ever
since
.
There
is
no
such
place
in
that
part
now
;
but
it
remained
there
for
many
years
,
looking
with
a
baulked
countenance
at
the
wilderness
patched
with
unfruitful
gardens
and
pimpled
with
eruptive
summerhouses
,
that
it
had
meant
to
run
over
in
no
time
.
‘
The
house
,
’
thought
Clennam
,
as
he
crossed
to
the
door
,
‘
is
as
little
changed
as
my
mother
’
s
,
and
looks
almost
as
gloomy
.
But
the
likeness
ends
outside
.
I
know
its
staid
repose
within
.
The
smell
of
its
jars
of
old
rose
-
leaves
and
lavender
seems
to
come
upon
me
even
here
.
’
When
his
knock
at
the
bright
brass
knocker
of
obsolete
shape
brought
a
woman
-
servant
to
the
door
,
those
faded
scents
in
truth
saluted
him
like
wintry
breath
that
had
a
faint
remembrance
in
it
of
the
bygone
spring
.
He
stepped
into
the
sober
,
silent
,
air
-
tight
house
—
one
might
have
fancied
it
to
have
been
stifled
by
Mutes
in
the
Eastern
manner
—
and
the
door
,
closing
again
,
seemed
to
shut
out
sound
and
motion
.
The
furniture
was
formal
,
grave
,
and
quaker
-
like
,
but
well
-
kept
;
and
had
as
prepossessing
an
aspect
as
anything
,
from
a
human
creature
to
a
wooden
stool
,
that
is
meant
for
much
use
and
is
preserved
for
little
,
can
ever
wear
.
There
was
a
grave
clock
,
ticking
somewhere
up
the
staircase
;
and
there
was
a
songless
bird
in
the
same
direction
,
pecking
at
his
cage
,
as
if
he
were
ticking
too
.
The
parlour
-
fire
ticked
in
the
grate
.
There
was
only
one
person
on
the
parlour
-
hearth
,
and
the
loud
watch
in
his
pocket
ticked
audibly
.
The
servant
-
maid
had
ticked
the
two
words
‘
Mr
Clennam
’
so
softly
that
she
had
not
been
heard
;
and
he
consequently
stood
,
within
the
door
she
had
closed
,
unnoticed
.
The
figure
of
a
man
advanced
in
life
,
whose
smooth
grey
eyebrows
seemed
to
move
to
the
ticking
as
the
fire
-
light
flickered
on
them
,
sat
in
an
arm
-
chair
,
with
his
list
shoes
on
the
rug
,
and
his
thumbs
slowly
revolving
over
one
another
.
This
was
old
Christopher
Casby
—
recognisable
at
a
glance
—
as
unchanged
in
twenty
years
and
upward
as
his
own
solid
furniture
—
as
little
touched
by
the
influence
of
the
varying
seasons
as
the
old
rose
-
leaves
and
old
lavender
in
his
porcelain
jars
.
Perhaps
there
never
was
a
man
,
in
this
troublesome
world
,
so
troublesome
for
the
imagination
to
picture
as
a
boy
.
And
yet
he
had
changed
very
little
in
his
progress
through
life
.
Confronting
him
,
in
the
room
in
which
he
sat
,
was
a
boy
’
s
portrait
,
which
anybody
seeing
him
would
have
identified
as
Master
Christopher
Casby
,
aged
ten
:
though
disguised
with
a
haymaking
rake
,
for
which
he
had
had
,
at
any
time
,
as
much
taste
or
use
as
for
a
diving
-
bell
;
and
sitting
(
on
one
of
his
own
legs
)
upon
a
bank
of
violets
,
moved
to
precocious
contemplation
by
the
spire
of
a
village
church
.
There
was
the
same
smooth
face
and
forehead
,
the
same
calm
blue
eye
,
the
same
placid
air
.
