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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Крошка Доррит
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- Стр. 701/761
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For
a
burning
restlessness
set
in
,
an
agonised
impatience
of
the
prison
,
and
a
conviction
that
he
was
going
to
break
his
heart
and
die
there
,
which
caused
him
indescribable
suffering
.
His
dread
and
hatred
of
the
place
became
so
intense
that
he
felt
it
a
labour
to
draw
his
breath
in
it
.
The
sensation
of
being
stifled
sometimes
so
overpowered
him
,
that
he
would
stand
at
the
window
holding
his
throat
and
gasping
.
At
the
same
time
a
longing
for
other
air
,
and
a
yearning
to
be
beyond
the
blind
blank
wall
,
made
him
feel
as
if
he
must
go
mad
with
the
ardour
of
the
desire
.
Many
other
prisoners
had
had
experience
of
this
condition
before
him
,
and
its
violence
and
continuity
had
worn
themselves
out
in
their
cases
,
as
they
did
in
his
.
Two
nights
and
a
day
exhausted
it
.
It
came
back
by
fits
,
but
those
grew
fainter
and
returned
at
lengthening
intervals
.
A
desolate
calm
succeeded
;
and
the
middle
of
the
week
found
him
settled
down
in
the
despondency
of
low
,
slow
fever
.
With
Cavalletto
and
Pancks
away
,
he
had
no
visitors
to
fear
but
Mr
and
Mrs
Plornish
.
His
anxiety
,
in
reference
to
that
worthy
pair
,
was
that
they
should
not
come
near
him
;
for
,
in
the
morbid
state
of
his
nerves
,
he
sought
to
be
left
alone
,
and
spared
the
being
seen
so
subdued
and
weak
.
He
wrote
a
note
to
Mrs
Plornish
representing
himself
as
occupied
with
his
affairs
,
and
bound
by
the
necessity
of
devoting
himself
to
them
,
to
remain
for
a
time
even
without
the
pleasant
interruption
of
a
sight
of
her
kind
face
.
As
to
Young
John
,
who
looked
in
daily
at
a
certain
hour
,
when
the
turnkeys
were
relieved
,
to
ask
if
he
could
do
anything
for
him
;
he
always
made
a
pretence
of
being
engaged
in
writing
,
and
to
answer
cheerfully
in
the
negative
.
The
subject
of
their
only
long
conversation
had
never
been
revived
between
them
.
Through
all
these
changes
of
unhappiness
,
however
,
it
had
never
lost
its
hold
on
Clennam
’
s
mind
.
The
sixth
day
of
the
appointed
week
was
a
moist
,
hot
,
misty
day
.
It
seemed
as
though
the
prison
’
s
poverty
,
and
shabbiness
,
and
dirt
,
were
growing
in
the
sultry
atmosphere
.
With
an
aching
head
and
a
weary
heart
,
Clennam
had
watched
the
miserable
night
out
,
listening
to
the
fall
of
rain
on
the
yard
pavement
,
thinking
of
its
softer
fall
upon
the
country
earth
.
A
blurred
circle
of
yellow
haze
had
risen
up
in
the
sky
in
lieu
of
sun
,
and
he
had
watched
the
patch
it
put
upon
his
wall
,
like
a
bit
of
the
prison
’
s
raggedness
.
He
had
heard
the
gates
open
;
and
the
badly
shod
feet
that
waited
outside
shuffle
in
;
and
the
sweeping
,
and
pumping
,
and
moving
about
,
begin
,
which
commenced
the
prison
morning
.
So
ill
and
faint
that
he
was
obliged
to
rest
many
times
in
the
process
of
getting
himself
washed
,
he
had
at
length
crept
to
his
chair
by
the
open
window
.
In
it
he
sat
dozing
,
while
the
old
woman
who
arranged
his
room
went
through
her
morning
’
s
work
.
Light
of
head
with
want
of
sleep
and
want
of
food
(
his
appetite
,
and
even
his
sense
of
taste
,
having
forsaken
him
)
,
he
had
been
two
or
three
times
conscious
,
in
the
night
,
of
going
astray
.
He
had
heard
fragments
of
tunes
and
songs
in
the
warm
wind
,
which
he
knew
had
no
existence
.
Now
that
he
began
to
doze
in
exhaustion
,
he
heard
them
again
;
and
voices
seemed
to
address
him
,
and
he
answered
,
and
started
.
Dozing
and
dreaming
,
without
the
power
of
reckoning
time
,
so
that
a
minute
might
have
been
an
hour
and
an
hour
a
minute
,
some
abiding
impression
of
a
garden
stole
over
him
—
a
garden
of
flowers
,
with
a
damp
warm
wind
gently
stirring
their
scents
.
It
required
such
a
painful
effort
to
lift
his
head
for
the
purpose
of
inquiring
into
this
,
or
inquiring
into
anything
,
that
the
impression
appeared
to
have
become
quite
an
old
and
importunate
one
when
he
looked
round
.
Beside
the
tea
-
cup
on
his
table
he
saw
,
then
,
a
blooming
nosegay
:
a
wonderful
handful
of
the
choicest
and
most
lovely
flowers
.
Nothing
had
ever
appeared
so
beautiful
in
his
sight
.
He
took
them
up
and
inhaled
their
fragrance
,
and
he
lifted
them
to
his
hot
head
,
and
he
put
them
down
and
opened
his
parched
hands
to
them
,
as
cold
hands
are
opened
to
receive
the
cheering
of
a
fire
.
It
was
not
until
he
had
delighted
in
them
for
some
time
,
that
he
wondered
who
had
sent
them
;
and
opened
his
door
to
ask
the
woman
who
must
have
put
them
there
,
how
they
had
come
into
her
hands
.
But
she
was
gone
,
and
seemed
to
have
been
long
gone
;
for
the
tea
she
had
left
for
him
on
the
table
was
cold
.
He
tried
to
drink
some
,
but
could
not
bear
the
odour
of
it
:
so
he
crept
back
to
his
chair
by
the
open
window
,
and
put
the
flowers
on
the
little
round
table
of
old
.
When
the
first
faintness
consequent
on
having
moved
about
had
left
him
,
he
subsided
into
his
former
state
.
One
of
the
night
-
tunes
was
playing
in
the
wind
,
when
the
door
of
his
room
seemed
to
open
to
a
light
touch
,
and
,
after
a
moment
’
s
pause
,
a
quiet
figure
seemed
to
stand
there
,
with
a
black
mantle
on
it
.
It
seemed
to
draw
the
mantle
off
and
drop
it
on
the
ground
,
and
then
it
seemed
to
be
his
Little
Dorrit
in
her
old
,
worn
dress
.
It
seemed
to
tremble
,
and
to
clasp
its
hands
,
and
to
smile
,
and
to
burst
into
tears
.
