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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 569/761
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Having
dined
as
plainly
as
the
establishment
and
the
Courier
would
let
him
,
and
having
taken
a
short
sleep
by
the
fire
for
his
better
recovery
from
Mrs
Finching
,
he
set
out
in
a
hackney
-
cabriolet
alone
.
The
deep
bell
of
St
Paul
’
s
was
striking
nine
as
he
passed
under
the
shadow
of
Temple
Bar
,
headless
and
forlorn
in
these
degenerate
days
.
As
he
approached
his
destination
through
the
by
-
streets
and
water
-
side
ways
,
that
part
of
London
seemed
to
him
an
uglier
spot
at
such
an
hour
than
he
had
ever
supposed
it
to
be
.
Many
long
years
had
passed
since
he
had
seen
it
;
he
had
never
known
much
of
it
;
and
it
wore
a
mysterious
and
dismal
aspect
in
his
eyes
.
So
powerfully
was
his
imagination
impressed
by
it
,
that
when
his
driver
stopped
,
after
having
asked
the
way
more
than
once
,
and
said
to
the
best
of
his
belief
this
was
the
gateway
they
wanted
,
Mr
Dorrit
stood
hesitating
,
with
the
coach
-
door
in
his
hand
,
half
afraid
of
the
dark
look
of
the
place
.
Truly
,
it
looked
as
gloomy
that
night
as
even
it
had
ever
looked
.
Two
of
the
handbills
were
posted
on
the
entrance
wall
,
one
on
either
side
,
and
as
the
lamp
flickered
in
the
night
air
,
shadows
passed
over
them
,
not
unlike
the
shadows
of
fingers
following
the
lines
.
A
watch
was
evidently
kept
upon
the
place
.
As
Mr
Dorrit
paused
,
a
man
passed
in
from
over
the
way
,
and
another
man
passed
out
from
some
dark
corner
within
;
and
both
looked
at
him
in
passing
,
and
both
remained
standing
about
.
As
there
was
only
one
house
in
the
enclosure
,
there
was
no
room
for
uncertainty
,
so
he
went
up
the
steps
of
that
house
and
knocked
.
There
was
a
dim
light
in
two
windows
on
the
first
-
floor
.
The
door
gave
back
a
dreary
,
vacant
sound
,
as
though
the
house
were
empty
;
but
it
was
not
,
for
a
light
was
visible
,
and
a
step
was
audible
,
almost
directly
.
They
both
came
to
the
door
,
and
a
chain
grated
,
and
a
woman
with
her
apron
thrown
over
her
face
and
head
stood
in
the
aperture
.
‘
Who
is
it
?
’
said
the
woman
.
Mr
Dorrit
,
much
amazed
by
this
appearance
,
replied
that
he
was
from
Italy
,
and
that
he
wished
to
ask
a
question
relative
to
the
missing
person
,
whom
he
knew
.
‘
Hi
!
’
cried
the
woman
,
raising
a
cracked
voice
.
‘
Jeremiah
!
’
Upon
this
,
a
dry
old
man
appeared
,
whom
Mr
Dorrit
thought
he
identified
by
his
gaiters
,
as
the
rusty
screw
.
The
woman
was
under
apprehensions
of
the
dry
old
man
,
for
she
whisked
her
apron
away
as
he
approached
,
and
disclosed
a
pale
affrighted
face
.
‘
Open
the
door
,
you
fool
,
’
said
the
old
man
;
‘
and
let
the
gentleman
in
.
’
Mr
Dorrit
,
not
without
a
glance
over
his
shoulder
towards
his
driver
and
the
cabriolet
,
walked
into
the
dim
hall
.
‘
Now
,
sir
,
’
said
Mr
Flintwinch
,
‘
you
can
ask
anything
here
you
think
proper
;
there
are
no
secrets
here
,
sir
.
’
