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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 29/761
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‘
I
don
’
t
care
for
that
.
I
’
ll
run
away
.
I
’
ll
do
some
mischief
.
I
won
’
t
bear
it
;
I
can
’
t
bear
it
;
I
shall
die
if
I
try
to
bear
it
!
’
The
observer
stood
with
her
hand
upon
her
own
bosom
,
looking
at
the
girl
,
as
one
afflicted
with
a
diseased
part
might
curiously
watch
the
dissection
and
exposition
of
an
analogous
case
.
The
girl
raged
and
battled
with
all
the
force
of
her
youth
and
fulness
of
life
,
until
by
little
and
little
her
passionate
exclamations
trailed
off
into
broken
murmurs
as
if
she
were
in
pain
.
By
corresponding
degrees
she
sank
into
a
chair
,
then
upon
her
knees
,
then
upon
the
ground
beside
the
bed
,
drawing
the
coverlet
with
her
,
half
to
hide
her
shamed
head
and
wet
hair
in
it
,
and
half
,
as
it
seemed
,
to
embrace
it
,
rather
than
have
nothing
to
take
to
her
repentant
breast
.
‘
Go
away
from
me
,
go
away
from
me
!
When
my
temper
comes
upon
me
,
I
am
mad
.
I
know
I
might
keep
it
off
if
I
only
tried
hard
enough
,
and
sometimes
I
do
try
hard
enough
,
and
at
other
times
I
don
’
t
and
won
’
t
.
What
have
I
said
!
I
knew
when
I
said
it
,
it
was
all
lies
.
They
think
I
am
being
taken
care
of
somewhere
,
and
have
all
I
want
.
They
are
nothing
but
good
to
me
.
I
love
them
dearly
;
no
people
could
ever
be
kinder
to
a
thankless
creature
than
they
always
are
to
me
.
Do
,
do
go
away
,
for
I
am
afraid
of
you
.
I
am
afraid
of
myself
when
I
feel
my
temper
coming
,
and
I
am
as
much
afraid
of
you
.
Go
away
from
me
,
and
let
me
pray
and
cry
myself
better
!
’
The
day
passed
on
;
and
again
the
wide
stare
stared
itself
out
;
and
the
hot
night
was
on
Marseilles
;
and
through
it
the
caravan
of
the
morning
,
all
dispersed
,
went
their
appointed
ways
And
thus
ever
by
day
and
night
,
under
the
sun
and
under
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
,
move
all
we
restless
travellers
through
the
pilgrimage
of
life
.
It
was
a
Sunday
evening
in
London
,
gloomy
,
close
,
and
stale
.
Maddening
church
bells
of
all
degrees
of
dissonance
,
sharp
and
flat
,
cracked
and
clear
,
fast
and
slow
,
made
the
brick
-
and
-
mortar
echoes
hideous
.
Melancholy
streets
,
in
a
penitential
garb
of
soot
,
steeped
the
souls
of
the
people
who
were
condemned
to
look
at
them
out
of
windows
,
in
dire
despondency
.
In
every
thoroughfare
,
up
almost
every
alley
,
and
down
almost
every
turning
,
some
doleful
bell
was
throbbing
,
jerking
,
tolling
,
as
if
the
Plague
were
in
the
city
and
the
dead
-
carts
were
going
round
.
Everything
was
bolted
and
barred
that
could
by
possibility
furnish
relief
to
an
overworked
people
.
No
pictures
,
no
unfamiliar
animals
,
no
rare
plants
or
flowers
,
no
natural
or
artificial
wonders
of
the
ancient
world
—
all
taboo
with
that
enlightened
strictness
,
that
the
ugly
South
Sea
gods
in
the
British
Museum
might
have
supposed
themselves
at
home
again
.
Nothing
to
see
but
streets
,
streets
,
streets
.
Nothing
to
breathe
but
streets
,
streets
,
streets
.
Nothing
to
change
the
brooding
mind
,
or
raise
it
up
.
Nothing
for
the
spent
toiler
to
do
,
but
to
compare
the
monotony
of
his
seventh
day
with
the
monotony
of
his
six
days
,
think
what
a
weary
life
he
led
,
and
make
the
best
of
it
—
or
the
worst
,
according
to
the
probabilities
.
At
such
a
happy
time
,
so
propitious
to
the
interests
of
religion
and
morality
,
Mr
Arthur
Clennam
,
newly
arrived
from
Marseilles
by
way
of
Dover
,
and
by
Dover
coach
the
Blue
-
eyed
Maid
,
sat
in
the
window
of
a
coffee
-
house
on
Ludgate
Hill
.
Ten
thousand
responsible
houses
surrounded
him
,
frowning
as
heavily
on
the
streets
they
composed
,
as
if
they
were
every
one
inhabited
by
the
ten
young
men
of
the
Calender
’
s
story
,
who
blackened
their
faces
and
bemoaned
their
miseries
every
night
.
Fifty
thousand
lairs
surrounded
him
where
people
lived
so
unwholesomely
that
fair
water
put
into
their
crowded
rooms
on
Saturday
night
,
would
be
corrupt
on
Sunday
morning
;
albeit
my
lord
,
their
county
member
,
was
amazed
that
they
failed
to
sleep
in
company
with
their
butcher
’
s
meat
.
Miles
of
close
wells
and
pits
of
houses
,
where
the
inhabitants
gasped
for
air
,
stretched
far
away
towards
every
point
of
the
compass
.
Through
the
heart
of
the
town
a
deadly
sewer
ebbed
and
flowed
,
in
the
place
of
a
fine
fresh
river
.
What
secular
want
could
the
million
or
so
of
human
beings
whose
daily
labour
,
six
days
in
the
week
,
lay
among
these
Arcadian
objects
,
from
the
sweet
sameness
of
which
they
had
no
escape
between
the
cradle
and
the
grave
—
what
secular
want
could
they
possibly
have
upon
their
seventh
day
?
Clearly
they
could
want
nothing
but
a
stringent
policeman
.
