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- Чарльз Диккенс
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'
In
life
?
'
asked
Monks
.
'
In
death
,
'
replied
the
woman
,
with
something
like
a
shudder
.
'
She
stole
from
the
corpse
,
when
it
had
hardly
turned
to
one
,
that
which
the
dead
mother
had
prayed
her
,
with
her
last
breath
,
to
keep
for
the
infant
's
sake
.
'
'
She
sold
it
,
'
cried
Monks
,
with
desperate
eagerness
;
'
did
she
sell
it
?
Where
?
When
?
To
whom
?
How
long
before
?
'
'
As
she
told
me
,
with
great
difficulty
,
that
she
had
done
this
,
'
said
the
matron
,
'
she
fell
back
and
died
.
'
'
Without
saying
more
?
'
cried
Monks
,
in
a
voice
which
,
from
its
very
suppression
,
seemed
only
the
more
furious
.
'
It
's
a
lie
!
I
'll
not
be
played
with
.
She
said
more
.
I
'll
tear
the
life
out
of
you
both
,
but
I
'll
know
what
it
was
.
'
'
She
did
n't
utter
another
word
,
'
said
the
woman
,
to
all
appearance
unmoved
(
as
Mr.
Bumble
was
very
far
from
being
)
by
the
strange
man
's
violence
;
'
but
she
clutched
my
gown
,
violently
,
with
one
hand
,
which
was
partly
closed
;
and
when
I
saw
that
she
was
dead
,
and
so
removed
the
hand
by
force
,
I
found
it
clasped
a
scrap
of
dirty
paper
.
'
'
Which
contained
--
'
interposed
Monks
,
stretching
forward
.
'
Nothing
,
'
replied
the
woman
;
'
it
was
a
pawnbroker
's
duplicate
.
'
'
For
what
?
'
demanded
Monks
.
'
In
good
time
I
'll
tell
you
.
'
said
the
woman
.
