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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 153/761
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‘
A
fresh
night
!
’
said
Arthur
.
‘
Yes
,
it
’
s
pretty
fresh
,
’
assented
Pancks
.
‘
As
a
stranger
you
feel
the
climate
more
than
I
do
,
I
dare
say
.
Indeed
I
haven
’
t
got
time
to
feel
it
.
’
‘
You
lead
such
a
busy
life
?
’
‘
Yes
,
I
have
always
some
of
‘
em
to
look
up
,
or
something
to
look
after
.
But
I
like
business
,
’
said
Pancks
,
getting
on
a
little
faster
.
‘
What
’
s
a
man
made
for
?
’
‘
For
nothing
else
?
’
said
Clennam
.
Pancks
put
the
counter
question
,
‘
What
else
?
’
It
packed
up
,
in
the
smallest
compass
,
a
weight
that
had
rested
on
Clennam
’
s
life
;
and
he
made
no
answer
.
‘
That
’
s
what
I
ask
our
weekly
tenants
,
’
said
Pancks
.
‘
Some
of
‘
em
will
pull
long
faces
to
me
,
and
say
,
Poor
as
you
see
us
,
master
,
we
’
re
always
grinding
,
drudging
,
toiling
,
every
minute
we
’
re
awake
.
I
say
to
them
,
What
else
are
you
made
for
?
It
shuts
them
up
.
They
haven
’
t
a
word
to
answer
.
What
else
are
you
made
for
?
That
clinches
it
.
’
‘
Ah
dear
,
dear
,
dear
!
’
sighed
Clennam
.
‘
Here
am
I
,
’
said
Pancks
,
pursuing
his
argument
with
the
weekly
tenant
.
‘
What
else
do
you
suppose
I
think
I
am
made
for
?
Nothing
.
Rattle
me
out
of
bed
early
,
set
me
going
,
give
me
as
short
a
time
as
you
like
to
bolt
my
meals
in
,
and
keep
me
at
it
.
Keep
me
always
at
it
,
and
I
’
ll
keep
you
always
at
it
,
you
keep
somebody
else
always
at
it
.
There
you
are
with
the
Whole
Duty
of
Man
in
a
commercial
country
.
’
