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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 142/761
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‘
Mr
Clennam
,
I
am
glad
to
see
you
.
How
have
you
been
since
we
met
?
’
Without
thinking
it
worth
while
to
explain
that
in
the
course
of
some
quarter
of
a
century
he
had
experienced
occasional
slight
fluctuations
in
his
health
and
spirits
,
Clennam
answered
generally
that
he
had
never
been
better
,
or
something
equally
to
the
purpose
;
and
shook
hands
with
the
possessor
of
‘
that
head
’
as
it
shed
its
patriarchal
light
upon
him
.
‘
We
are
older
,
Mr
Clennam
,
’
said
Christopher
Casby
.
‘
We
are
—
not
younger
,
’
said
Clennam
.
After
this
wise
remark
he
felt
that
he
was
scarcely
shining
with
brilliancy
,
and
became
aware
that
he
was
nervous
.
‘
And
your
respected
father
,
’
said
Mr
Casby
,
‘
is
no
more
!
I
was
grieved
to
hear
it
,
Mr
Clennam
,
I
was
grieved
.
’
Arthur
replied
in
the
usual
way
that
he
felt
infinitely
obliged
to
him
.
‘
There
was
a
time
,
’
said
Mr
Casby
,
‘
when
your
parents
and
myself
were
not
on
friendly
terms
.
There
was
a
little
family
misunderstanding
among
us
.
Your
respected
mother
was
rather
jealous
of
her
son
,
maybe
;
when
I
say
her
son
,
I
mean
your
worthy
self
,
your
worthy
self
.
’
His
smooth
face
had
a
bloom
upon
it
like
ripe
wall
-
fruit
.
What
with
his
blooming
face
,
and
that
head
,
and
his
blue
eyes
,
he
seemed
to
be
delivering
sentiments
of
rare
wisdom
and
virtue
.
In
like
manner
,
his
physiognomical
expression
seemed
to
teem
with
benignity
.
Nobody
could
have
said
where
the
wisdom
was
,
or
where
the
virtue
was
,
or
where
the
benignity
was
;
but
they
all
seemed
to
be
somewhere
about
him
.
‘
Those
times
,
however
,
’
pursued
Mr
Casby
,
‘
are
past
and
gone
,
past
and
gone
.
I
do
myself
the
pleasure
of
making
a
visit
to
your
respected
mother
occasionally
,
and
of
admiring
the
fortitude
and
strength
of
mind
with
which
she
bears
her
trials
,
bears
her
trials
.
’
When
he
made
one
of
these
little
repetitions
,
sitting
with
his
hands
crossed
before
him
,
he
did
it
with
his
head
on
one
side
,
and
a
gentle
smile
,
as
if
he
had
something
in
his
thoughts
too
sweetly
profound
to
be
put
into
words
.
As
if
he
denied
himself
the
pleasure
of
uttering
it
,
lest
he
should
soar
too
high
;
and
his
meekness
therefore
preferred
to
be
unmeaning
.
