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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 174/761
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He
soon
brought
in
the
cushions
,
and
strewed
them
on
the
ground
.
‘
There
you
are
,
you
see
.
Again
as
large
as
life
.
Oh
,
never
mind
thanking
.
I
’
ve
daughters
of
my
own
And
though
they
weren
’
t
born
in
the
Marshalsea
Prison
,
they
might
have
been
,
if
I
had
been
,
in
my
ways
of
carrying
on
,
of
your
father
’
s
breed
.
Stop
a
bit
.
I
must
put
something
under
the
cushion
for
your
head
.
Here
’
s
a
burial
volume
,
just
the
thing
!
We
have
got
Mrs
Bangham
in
this
book
.
But
what
makes
these
books
interesting
to
most
people
is
—
not
who
’
s
in
‘
em
,
but
who
isn
’
t
—
who
’
s
coming
,
you
know
,
and
when
.
That
’
s
the
interesting
question
.
’
Commendingly
looking
back
at
the
pillow
he
had
improvised
,
he
left
them
to
their
hour
’
s
repose
.
Maggy
was
snoring
already
,
and
Little
Dorrit
was
soon
fast
asleep
with
her
head
resting
on
that
sealed
book
of
Fate
,
untroubled
by
its
mysterious
blank
leaves
.
This
was
Little
Dorrit
’
s
party
.
The
shame
,
desertion
,
wretchedness
,
and
exposure
of
the
great
capital
;
the
wet
,
the
cold
,
the
slow
hours
,
and
the
swift
clouds
of
the
dismal
night
.
This
was
the
party
from
which
Little
Dorrit
went
home
,
jaded
,
in
the
first
grey
mist
of
a
rainy
morning
.
The
debilitated
old
house
in
the
city
,
wrapped
in
its
mantle
of
soot
,
and
leaning
heavily
on
the
crutches
that
had
partaken
of
its
decay
and
worn
out
with
it
,
never
knew
a
healthy
or
a
cheerful
interval
,
let
what
would
betide
.
If
the
sun
ever
touched
it
,
it
was
but
with
a
ray
,
and
that
was
gone
in
half
an
hour
;
if
the
moonlight
ever
fell
upon
it
,
it
was
only
to
put
a
few
patches
on
its
doleful
cloak
,
and
make
it
look
more
wretched
.
The
stars
,
to
be
sure
,
coldly
watched
it
when
the
nights
and
the
smoke
were
clear
enough
;
and
all
bad
weather
stood
by
it
with
a
rare
fidelity
.
You
should
alike
find
rain
,
hail
,
frost
,
and
thaw
lingering
in
that
dismal
enclosure
when
they
had
vanished
from
other
places
;
and
as
to
snow
,
you
should
see
it
there
for
weeks
,
long
after
it
had
changed
from
yellow
to
black
,
slowly
weeping
away
its
grimy
life
.
The
place
had
no
other
adherents
.
As
to
street
noises
,
the
rumbling
of
wheels
in
the
lane
merely
rushed
in
at
the
gateway
in
going
past
,
and
rushed
out
again
:
making
the
listening
Mistress
Affery
feel
as
if
she
were
deaf
,
and
recovered
the
sense
of
hearing
by
instantaneous
flashes
.
So
with
whistling
,
singing
,
talking
,
laughing
,
and
all
pleasant
human
sounds
.
They
leaped
the
gap
in
a
moment
,
and
went
upon
their
way
.
The
varying
light
of
fire
and
candle
in
Mrs
Clennam
’
s
room
made
the
greatest
change
that
ever
broke
the
dead
monotony
of
the
spot
.
In
her
two
long
narrow
windows
,
the
fire
shone
sullenly
all
day
,
and
sullenly
all
night
.
On
rare
occasions
it
flashed
up
passionately
,
as
she
did
;
but
for
the
most
part
it
was
suppressed
,
like
her
,
and
preyed
upon
itself
evenly
and
slowly
.
During
many
hours
of
the
short
winter
days
,
however
,
when
it
was
dusk
there
early
in
the
afternoon
,
changing
distortions
of
herself
in
her
wheeled
chair
,
of
Mr
Flintwinch
with
his
wry
neck
,
of
Mistress
Affery
coming
and
going
,
would
be
thrown
upon
the
house
wall
that
was
over
the
gateway
,
and
would
hover
there
like
shadows
from
a
great
magic
lantern
.
As
the
room
-
ridden
invalid
settled
for
the
night
,
these
would
gradually
disappear
:
Mistress
Affery
’
s
magnified
shadow
always
flitting
about
,
last
,
until
it
finally
glided
away
into
the
air
,
as
though
she
were
off
upon
a
witch
excursion
.
Then
the
solitary
light
would
burn
unchangingly
,
until
it
burned
pale
before
the
dawn
,
and
at
last
died
under
the
breath
of
Mrs
Affery
,
as
her
shadow
descended
on
it
from
the
witch
-
region
of
sleep
.
Strange
,
if
the
little
sick
-
room
fire
were
in
effect
a
beacon
fire
,
summoning
some
one
,
and
that
the
most
unlikely
some
one
in
the
world
,
to
the
spot
that
must
be
come
to
.
Strange
,
if
the
little
sick
-
room
light
were
in
effect
a
watch
-
light
,
burning
in
that
place
every
night
until
an
appointed
event
should
be
watched
out
!
Which
of
the
vast
multitude
of
travellers
,
under
the
sun
and
the
stars
,
climbing
the
dusty
hills
and
toiling
along
the
weary
plains
,
journeying
by
land
and
journeying
by
sea
,
coming
and
going
so
strangely
,
to
meet
and
to
act
and
react
on
one
another
;
which
of
the
host
may
,
with
no
suspicion
of
the
journey
’
s
end
,
be
travelling
surely
hither
?
Time
shall
show
us
.
