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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 583/761
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Mr
Dorrit
was
not
sure
of
that
.
But
,
for
example
,
the
sprightly
little
woman
was
very
sure
of
it
,
she
said
.
So
Mr
Dorrit
bought
a
gift
of
each
sort
,
and
paid
handsomely
for
it
.
As
he
strolled
back
to
his
hotel
afterwards
,
he
carried
his
head
high
:
having
plainly
got
up
his
castle
now
to
a
much
loftier
altitude
than
the
two
square
towers
of
Notre
Dame
.
Building
away
with
all
his
might
,
but
reserving
the
plans
of
his
castle
exclusively
for
his
own
eye
,
Mr
Dorrit
posted
away
for
Marseilles
.
Building
on
,
building
on
,
busily
,
busily
,
from
morning
to
night
.
Falling
asleep
,
and
leaving
great
blocks
of
building
materials
dangling
in
the
air
;
waking
again
,
to
resume
work
and
get
them
into
their
places
.
What
time
the
Courier
in
the
rumble
,
smoking
Young
John
’
s
best
cigars
,
left
a
little
thread
of
thin
light
smoke
behind
—
perhaps
as
he
built
a
castle
or
two
with
stray
pieces
of
Mr
Dorrit
’
s
money
Not
a
fortified
town
that
they
passed
in
all
their
journey
was
as
strong
,
not
a
Cathedral
summit
was
as
high
,
as
Mr
Dorrit
’
s
castle
.
Neither
the
Saone
nor
the
Rhone
sped
with
the
swiftness
of
that
peerless
building
;
nor
was
the
Mediterranean
deeper
than
its
foundations
;
nor
were
the
distant
landscapes
on
the
Cornice
road
,
nor
the
hills
and
bay
of
Genoa
the
Superb
,
more
beautiful
.
Mr
Dorrit
and
his
matchless
castle
were
disembarked
among
the
dirty
white
houses
and
dirtier
felons
of
Civita
Vecchia
,
and
thence
scrambled
on
to
Rome
as
they
could
,
through
the
filth
that
festered
on
the
way
.
The
sun
had
gone
down
full
four
hours
,
and
it
was
later
than
most
travellers
would
like
it
to
be
for
finding
themselves
outside
the
walls
of
Rome
,
when
Mr
Dorrit
’
s
carriage
,
still
on
its
last
wearisome
stage
,
rattled
over
the
solitary
Campagna
.
The
savage
herdsmen
and
the
fierce
-
looking
peasants
who
had
chequered
the
way
while
the
light
lasted
,
had
all
gone
down
with
the
sun
,
and
left
the
wilderness
blank
.
At
some
turns
of
the
road
,
a
pale
flare
on
the
horizon
,
like
an
exhalation
from
the
ruin
-
sown
land
,
showed
that
the
city
was
yet
far
off
;
but
this
poor
relief
was
rare
and
short
-
lived
.
The
carriage
dipped
down
again
into
a
hollow
of
the
black
dry
sea
,
and
for
a
long
time
there
was
nothing
visible
save
its
petrified
swell
and
the
gloomy
sky
.
Mr
Dorrit
,
though
he
had
his
castle
-
building
to
engage
his
mind
,
could
not
be
quite
easy
in
that
desolate
place
.
He
was
far
more
curious
,
in
every
swerve
of
the
carriage
,
and
every
cry
of
the
postilions
,
than
he
had
been
since
he
quitted
London
.
The
valet
on
the
box
evidently
quaked
.
The
Courier
in
the
rumble
was
not
altogether
comfortable
in
his
mind
.
As
often
as
Mr
Dorrit
let
down
the
glass
and
looked
back
at
him
(
which
was
very
often
)
,
he
saw
him
smoking
John
Chivery
out
,
it
is
true
,
but
still
generally
standing
up
the
while
and
looking
about
him
,
like
a
man
who
had
his
suspicions
,
and
kept
upon
his
guard
.
Then
would
Mr
Dorrit
,
pulling
up
the
glass
again
,
reflect
that
those
postilions
were
cut
-
throat
looking
fellows
,
and
that
he
would
have
done
better
to
have
slept
at
Civita
Vecchia
,
and
have
started
betimes
in
the
morning
.
But
,
for
all
this
,
he
worked
at
his
castle
in
the
intervals
.
And
now
,
fragments
of
ruinous
enclosure
,
yawning
window
-
gap
and
crazy
wall
,
deserted
houses
,
leaking
wells
,
broken
water
-
tanks
,
spectral
cypress
-
trees
,
patches
of
tangled
vine
,
and
the
changing
of
the
track
to
a
long
,
irregular
,
disordered
lane
where
everything
was
crumbling
away
,
from
the
unsightly
buildings
to
the
jolting
road
—
now
,
these
objects
showed
that
they
were
nearing
Rome
.
And
now
,
a
sudden
twist
and
stoppage
of
the
carriage
inspired
Mr
Dorrit
with
the
mistrust
that
the
brigand
moment
was
come
for
twisting
him
into
a
ditch
and
robbing
him
;
until
,
letting
down
the
glass
again
and
looking
out
,
he
perceived
himself
assailed
by
nothing
worse
than
a
funeral
procession
,
which
came
mechanically
chaunting
by
,
with
an
indistinct
show
of
dirty
vestments
,
lurid
torches
,
swinging
censers
,
and
a
great
cross
borne
before
a
priest
.
He
was
an
ugly
priest
by
torchlight
;
of
a
lowering
aspect
,
with
an
overhanging
brow
;
and
as
his
eyes
met
those
of
Mr
Dorrit
,
looking
bareheaded
out
of
the
carriage
,
his
lips
,
moving
as
they
chaunted
,
seemed
to
threaten
that
important
traveller
;
likewise
the
action
of
his
hand
,
which
was
in
fact
his
manner
of
returning
the
traveller
’
s
salutation
,
seemed
to
come
in
aid
of
that
menace
.
So
thought
Mr
Dorrit
,
made
fanciful
by
the
weariness
of
building
and
travelling
,
as
the
priest
drifted
past
him
,
and
the
procession
straggled
away
,
taking
its
dead
along
with
it
.
Upon
their
so
-
different
way
went
Mr
Dorrit
’
s
company
too
;
and
soon
,
with
their
coach
load
of
luxuries
from
the
two
great
capitals
of
Europe
,
they
were
(
like
the
Goths
reversed
)
beating
at
the
gates
of
Rome
.
Mr
Dorrit
was
not
expected
by
his
own
people
that
night
.
He
had
been
;
but
they
had
given
him
up
until
to
-
morrow
,
not
doubting
that
it
was
later
than
he
would
care
,
in
those
parts
,
to
be
out
.
Thus
,
when
his
equipage
stopped
at
his
own
gate
,
no
one
but
the
porter
appeared
to
receive
him
.
Was
Miss
Dorrit
from
home
?
he
asked
.
No
.
She
was
within
.
Good
,
said
Mr
Dorrit
to
the
assembling
servants
;
let
them
keep
where
they
were
;
let
them
help
to
unload
the
carriage
;
he
would
find
Miss
Dorrit
for
himself
.
So
he
went
up
his
grand
staircase
,
slowly
,
and
tired
,
and
looked
into
various
chambers
which
were
empty
,
until
he
saw
a
light
in
a
small
ante
-
room
.
It
was
a
curtained
nook
,
like
a
tent
,
within
two
other
rooms
;
and
it
looked
warm
and
bright
in
colour
,
as
he
approached
it
through
the
dark
avenue
they
made
.
