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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 401/761
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‘
What
is
disgraceful
,
Fanny
?
’
‘
I
do
say
,
’
she
repeated
,
‘
this
is
perfectly
infamous
!
Really
almost
enough
,
even
at
such
a
time
as
this
,
to
make
one
wish
one
was
dead
!
Here
is
that
child
Amy
,
in
her
ugly
old
shabby
dress
,
which
she
was
so
obstinate
about
,
Pa
,
which
I
over
and
over
again
begged
and
prayed
her
to
change
,
and
which
she
over
and
over
again
objected
to
,
and
promised
to
change
to
-
day
,
saying
she
wished
to
wear
it
as
long
as
ever
she
remained
in
there
with
you
—
which
was
absolutely
romantic
nonsense
of
the
lowest
kind
—
here
is
that
child
Amy
disgracing
us
to
the
last
moment
and
at
the
last
moment
,
by
being
carried
out
in
that
dress
after
all
.
And
by
that
Mr
Clennam
too
!
’
The
offence
was
proved
,
as
she
delivered
the
indictment
.
Clennam
appeared
at
the
carriage
-
door
,
bearing
the
little
insensible
figure
in
his
arms
.
‘
She
has
been
forgotten
,
’
he
said
,
in
a
tone
of
pity
not
free
from
reproach
.
‘
I
ran
up
to
her
room
(
which
Mr
Chivery
showed
me
)
and
found
the
door
open
,
and
that
she
had
fainted
on
the
floor
,
dear
child
.
She
appeared
to
have
gone
to
change
her
dress
,
and
to
have
sunk
down
overpowered
.
It
may
have
been
the
cheering
,
or
it
may
have
happened
sooner
.
Take
care
of
this
poor
cold
hand
,
Miss
Dorrit
.
Don
’
t
let
it
fall
.
’
‘
Thank
you
,
sir
,
’
returned
Miss
Dorrit
,
bursting
into
tears
‘
I
believe
I
know
what
to
do
,
if
you
will
give
me
leave
.
Dear
Amy
,
open
your
eyes
,
that
’
s
a
love
!
Oh
,
Amy
,
Amy
,
I
really
am
so
vexed
and
ashamed
!
Do
rouse
yourself
,
darling
!
Oh
,
why
are
they
not
driving
on
!
Pray
,
Pa
,
do
drive
on
!
’
The
attendant
,
getting
between
Clennam
and
the
carriage
-
door
,
with
a
sharp
‘
By
your
leave
,
sir
!
’
bundled
up
the
steps
,
and
they
drove
away
.
In
the
autumn
of
the
year
,
Darkness
and
Night
were
creeping
up
to
the
highest
ridges
of
the
Alps
.
It
was
vintage
time
in
the
valleys
on
the
Swiss
side
of
the
Pass
of
the
Great
Saint
Bernard
,
and
along
the
banks
of
the
Lake
of
Geneva
.
The
air
there
was
charged
with
the
scent
of
gathered
grapes
.
Baskets
,
troughs
,
and
tubs
of
grapes
stood
in
the
dim
village
doorways
,
stopped
the
steep
and
narrow
village
streets
,
and
had
been
carrying
all
day
along
the
roads
and
lanes
.
Grapes
,
split
and
crushed
under
foot
,
lay
about
everywhere
.
The
child
carried
in
a
sling
by
the
laden
peasant
woman
toiling
home
,
was
quieted
with
picked
-
up
grapes
;
the
idiot
sunning
his
big
goitre
under
the
leaves
of
the
wooden
chalet
by
the
way
to
the
Waterfall
,
sat
munching
grapes
;
the
breath
of
the
cows
and
goats
was
redolent
of
leaves
and
stalks
of
grapes
;
the
company
in
every
little
cabaret
were
eating
,
drinking
,
talking
grapes
.
A
pity
that
no
ripe
touch
of
this
generous
abundance
could
be
given
to
the
thin
,
hard
,
stony
wine
,
which
after
all
was
made
from
the
grapes
!
The
air
had
been
warm
and
transparent
through
the
whole
of
the
bright
day
.
Shining
metal
spires
and
church
-
roofs
,
distant
and
rarely
seen
,
had
sparkled
in
the
view
;
and
the
snowy
mountain
-
tops
had
been
so
clear
that
unaccustomed
eyes
,
cancelling
the
intervening
country
,
and
slighting
their
rugged
heights
for
something
fabulous
,
would
have
measured
them
as
within
a
few
hours
easy
reach
.
Mountain
-
peaks
of
great
celebrity
in
the
valleys
,
whence
no
trace
of
their
existence
was
visible
sometimes
for
months
together
,
had
been
since
morning
plain
and
near
in
the
blue
sky
.
