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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 30/761
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Mr
Arthur
Clennam
sat
in
the
window
of
the
coffee
-
house
on
Ludgate
Hill
,
counting
one
of
the
neighbouring
bells
,
making
sentences
and
burdens
of
songs
out
of
it
in
spite
of
himself
,
and
wondering
how
many
sick
people
it
might
be
the
death
of
in
the
course
of
the
year
.
As
the
hour
approached
,
its
changes
of
measure
made
it
more
and
more
exasperating
.
At
the
quarter
,
it
went
off
into
a
condition
of
deadly
-
lively
importunity
,
urging
the
populace
in
a
voluble
manner
to
Come
to
church
,
Come
to
church
,
Come
to
church
!
At
the
ten
minutes
,
it
became
aware
that
the
congregation
would
be
scanty
,
and
slowly
hammered
out
in
low
spirits
,
They
won
’
t
come
,
they
won
’
t
come
,
they
won
’
t
come
!
At
the
five
minutes
,
it
abandoned
hope
,
and
shook
every
house
in
the
neighbourhood
for
three
hundred
seconds
,
with
one
dismal
swing
per
second
,
as
a
groan
of
despair
.
‘
Thank
Heaven
!
’
said
Clennam
,
when
the
hour
struck
,
and
the
bell
stopped
.
But
its
sound
had
revived
a
long
train
of
miserable
Sundays
,
and
the
procession
would
not
stop
with
the
bell
,
but
continued
to
march
on
.
‘
Heaven
forgive
me
,
’
said
he
,
‘
and
those
who
trained
me
.
How
I
have
hated
this
day
!
’
There
was
the
dreary
Sunday
of
his
childhood
,
when
he
sat
with
his
hands
before
him
,
scared
out
of
his
senses
by
a
horrible
tract
which
commenced
business
with
the
poor
child
by
asking
him
in
its
title
,
why
he
was
going
to
Perdition
?
—
a
piece
of
curiosity
that
he
really
,
in
a
frock
and
drawers
,
was
not
in
a
condition
to
satisfy
—
and
which
,
for
the
further
attraction
of
his
infant
mind
,
had
a
parenthesis
in
every
other
line
with
some
such
hiccupping
reference
as
2
Ep
.
Thess
.
c
.
iii
,
v
.
6
&
7
.
There
was
the
sleepy
Sunday
of
his
boyhood
,
when
,
like
a
military
deserter
,
he
was
marched
to
chapel
by
a
picquet
of
teachers
three
times
a
day
,
morally
handcuffed
to
another
boy
;
and
when
he
would
willingly
have
bartered
two
meals
of
indigestible
sermon
for
another
ounce
or
two
of
inferior
mutton
at
his
scanty
dinner
in
the
flesh
.
There
was
the
interminable
Sunday
of
his
nonage
;
when
his
mother
,
stern
of
face
and
unrelenting
of
heart
,
would
sit
all
day
behind
a
Bible
—
bound
,
like
her
own
construction
of
it
,
in
the
hardest
,
barest
,
and
straitest
boards
,
with
one
dinted
ornament
on
the
cover
like
the
drag
of
a
chain
,
and
a
wrathful
sprinkling
of
red
upon
the
edges
of
the
leaves
—
as
if
it
,
of
all
books
!
were
a
fortification
against
sweetness
of
temper
,
natural
affection
,
and
gentle
intercourse
.
There
was
the
resentful
Sunday
of
a
little
later
,
when
he
sat
down
glowering
and
glooming
through
the
tardy
length
of
the
day
,
with
a
sullen
sense
of
injury
in
his
heart
,
and
no
more
real
knowledge
of
the
beneficent
history
of
the
New
Testament
than
if
he
had
been
bred
among
idolaters
.
There
was
a
legion
of
Sundays
,
all
days
of
unserviceable
bitterness
and
mortification
,
slowly
passing
before
him
.
‘
Beg
pardon
,
sir
,
’
said
a
brisk
waiter
,
rubbing
the
table
.
‘
Wish
see
bed
-
room
?
’
‘
Yes
.
I
have
just
made
up
my
mind
to
do
it
.
’
‘
Chaymaid
!
’
cried
the
waiter
.
‘
Gelen
box
num
seven
wish
see
room
!
’
‘
Stay
!
’
said
Clennam
,
rousing
himself
.
‘
I
was
not
thinking
of
what
I
said
;
I
answered
mechanically
.
I
am
not
going
to
sleep
here
.
I
am
going
home
.
’
