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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 217/761
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His
voice
died
away
,
as
if
she
could
not
bear
the
pain
of
hearing
him
,
and
her
hand
had
gradually
crept
to
his
lips
.
For
a
little
while
there
was
a
dead
silence
and
stillness
;
and
he
remained
shrunk
in
his
chair
,
and
she
remained
with
her
arm
round
his
neck
and
her
head
bowed
down
upon
his
shoulder
.
His
supper
was
cooking
in
a
saucepan
on
the
fire
,
and
,
when
she
moved
,
it
was
to
make
it
ready
for
him
on
the
table
.
He
took
his
usual
seat
,
she
took
hers
,
and
he
began
his
meal
.
They
did
not
,
as
yet
,
look
at
one
another
.
By
little
and
little
he
began
;
laying
down
his
knife
and
fork
with
a
noise
,
taking
things
up
sharply
,
biting
at
his
bread
as
if
he
were
offended
with
it
,
and
in
other
similar
ways
showing
that
he
was
out
of
sorts
.
At
length
he
pushed
his
plate
from
him
,
and
spoke
aloud
;
with
the
strangest
inconsistency
.
‘
What
does
it
matter
whether
I
eat
or
starve
?
What
does
it
matter
whether
such
a
blighted
life
as
mine
comes
to
an
end
,
now
,
next
week
,
or
next
year
?
What
am
I
worth
to
anyone
?
A
poor
prisoner
,
fed
on
alms
and
broken
victuals
;
a
squalid
,
disgraced
wretch
!
’
‘
Father
,
father
!
’
As
he
rose
she
went
on
her
knees
to
him
,
and
held
up
her
hands
to
him
.
‘
Amy
,
’
he
went
on
in
a
suppressed
voice
,
trembling
violently
,
and
looking
at
her
as
wildly
as
if
he
had
gone
mad
.
‘
I
tell
you
,
if
you
could
see
me
as
your
mother
saw
me
,
you
wouldn
’
t
believe
it
to
be
the
creature
you
have
only
looked
at
through
the
bars
of
this
cage
.
I
was
young
,
I
was
accomplished
,
I
was
good
-
looking
,
I
was
independent
—
by
God
I
was
,
child
!
—
and
people
sought
me
out
,
and
envied
me
.
Envied
me
!
’
‘
Dear
father
!
’
She
tried
to
take
down
the
shaking
arm
that
he
flourished
in
the
air
,
but
he
resisted
,
and
put
her
hand
away
.
‘
If
I
had
but
a
picture
of
myself
in
those
days
,
though
it
was
ever
so
ill
done
,
you
would
be
proud
of
it
,
you
would
be
proud
of
it
.
But
I
have
no
such
thing
.
Now
,
let
me
be
a
warning
!
Let
no
man
,
’
he
cried
,
looking
haggardly
about
,
‘
fail
to
preserve
at
least
that
little
of
the
times
of
his
prosperity
and
respect
.
Let
his
children
have
that
clue
to
what
he
was
.
Unless
my
face
,
when
I
am
dead
,
subsides
into
the
long
departed
look
—
they
say
such
things
happen
,
I
don
’
t
know
—
my
children
will
have
never
seen
me
.
’
‘
Father
,
father
!
’
‘
O
despise
me
,
despise
me
!
Look
away
from
me
,
don
’
t
listen
to
me
,
stop
me
,
blush
for
me
,
cry
for
me
—
even
you
,
Amy
!
Do
it
,
do
it
!
I
do
it
to
myself
!
I
am
hardened
now
,
I
have
sunk
too
low
to
care
long
even
for
that
.
’
