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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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‘
By
Bacchus
,
yes
,
sir
!
They
all
know
it
in
France
.
I
have
heard
it
many
times
,
sung
by
the
little
children
.
The
last
time
when
it
I
have
heard
,
’
said
Mr
Baptist
,
formerly
Cavalletto
,
who
usually
went
back
to
his
native
construction
of
sentences
when
his
memory
went
near
home
,
‘
is
from
a
sweet
little
voice
.
A
little
voice
,
very
pretty
,
very
innocent
.
Altro
!
’
‘
The
last
time
I
heard
it
,
’
returned
Arthur
,
‘
was
in
a
voice
quite
the
reverse
of
pretty
,
and
quite
the
reverse
of
innocent
.
’
He
said
it
more
to
himself
than
to
his
companion
,
and
added
to
himself
,
repeating
the
man
’
s
next
words
.
‘
Death
of
my
life
,
sir
,
it
’
s
my
character
to
be
impatient
!
’
‘
EH
!
’
cried
Cavalletto
,
astounded
,
and
with
all
his
colour
gone
in
a
moment
.
‘
What
is
the
matter
?
’
‘
Sir
!
You
know
where
I
have
heard
that
song
the
last
time
?
’
With
his
rapid
native
action
,
his
hands
made
the
outline
of
a
high
hook
nose
,
pushed
his
eyes
near
together
,
dishevelled
his
hair
,
puffed
out
his
upper
lip
to
represent
a
thick
moustache
,
and
threw
the
heavy
end
of
an
ideal
cloak
over
his
shoulder
.
While
doing
this
,
with
a
swiftness
incredible
to
one
who
has
not
watched
an
Italian
peasant
,
he
indicated
a
very
remarkable
and
sinister
smile
.
The
whole
change
passed
over
him
like
a
flash
of
light
,
and
he
stood
in
the
same
instant
,
pale
and
astonished
,
before
his
patron
.
‘
In
the
name
of
Fate
and
wonder
,
’
said
Clennam
,
‘
what
do
you
mean
?
Do
you
know
a
man
of
the
name
of
Blandois
?
’
‘
No
!
’
said
Mr
Baptist
,
shaking
his
head
.
‘
You
have
just
now
described
a
man
who
was
by
when
you
heard
that
song
;
have
you
not
?
’
‘
Yes
!
’
said
Mr
Baptist
,
nodding
fifty
times
.
