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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Оливер Твист
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- Стр. 389/420
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Write
and
appoint
the
evening
after
to-morrow
,
at
seven
,
for
the
meeting
.
We
shall
be
down
there
,
a
few
hours
before
,
but
shall
require
rest
:
especially
the
young
lady
,
who
MAY
have
greater
need
of
firmness
than
either
you
or
I
can
quite
foresee
just
now
.
But
my
blood
boils
to
avenge
this
poor
murdered
creature
.
Which
way
have
they
taken
?
'
'
Drive
straight
to
the
office
and
you
will
be
in
time
,
'
replied
Mr.
Losberne
.
'
I
will
remain
here
.
'
The
two
gentlemen
hastily
separated
;
each
in
a
fever
of
excitement
wholly
uncontrollable
.
Near
to
that
part
of
the
Thames
on
which
the
church
at
Rotherhithe
abuts
,
where
the
buildings
on
the
banks
are
dirtiest
and
the
vessels
on
the
river
blackest
with
the
dust
of
colliers
and
the
smoke
of
close-built
low-roofed
houses
,
there
exists
the
filthiest
,
the
strangest
,
the
most
extraordinary
of
the
many
localities
that
are
hidden
in
London
,
wholly
unknown
,
even
by
name
,
to
the
great
mass
of
its
inhabitants
.
To
reach
this
place
,
the
visitor
has
to
penetrate
through
a
maze
of
close
,
narrow
,
and
muddy
streets
,
thronged
by
the
rougest
and
poorest
of
waterside
people
,
and
devoted
to
the
traffic
they
may
be
supposed
to
occasion
.
The
cheapest
and
least
delicate
provisions
are
heaped
in
the
shops
;
the
coarsest
and
commonest
articles
of
wearing
apparel
dangle
at
the
salesman
's
door
,
and
stream
from
the
house-parapet
and
windows
.
Jostling
with
unemployed
labourers
of
the
lowest
class
,
ballast-heavers
,
coal-whippers
,
brazen
women
,
ragged
children
,
and
the
raff
and
refuse
of
the
river
,
he
makes
his
way
with
difficulty
along
,
assailed
by
offensive
sights
and
smells
from
the
narrow
alleys
which
branch
off
on
the
right
and
left
,
and
deafened
by
the
clash
of
ponderous
waggons
that
bear
great
piles
of
merchandise
from
the
stacks
of
warehouses
that
rise
from
every
corner
.
Arriving
,
at
length
,
in
streets
remoter
and
less-frequented
than
those
through
which
he
has
passed
,
he
walks
beneath
tottering
house-fronts
projecting
over
the
pavement
,
dismantled
walls
that
seem
to
totter
as
he
passes
,
chimneys
half
crushed
half
hesitating
to
fall
,
windows
guarded
by
rusty
iron
bars
that
time
and
dirt
have
almost
eaten
away
,
every
imaginable
sign
of
desolation
and
neglect
.
In
such
a
neighborhood
,
beyond
Dockhead
in
the
Borough
of
Southwark
,
stands
Jacob
's
Island
,
surrounded
by
a
muddy
ditch
,
six
or
eight
feet
deep
and
fifteen
or
twenty
wide
when
the
tide
is
in
,
once
called
Mill
Pond
,
but
known
in
the
days
of
this
story
as
Folly
Ditch
.
It
is
a
creek
or
inlet
from
the
Thames
,
and
can
always
be
filled
at
high
water
by
opening
the
sluices
at
the
Lead
Mills
from
which
it
took
its
old
name
.
At
such
times
,
a
stranger
,
looking
from
one
of
the
wooden
bridges
thrown
across
it
at
Mill
Lane
,
will
see
the
inhabitants
of
the
houses
on
either
side
lowering
from
their
back
doors
and
windows
,
buckets
,
pails
,
domestic
utensils
of
all
kinds
,
in
which
to
haul
the
water
up
;
and
when
his
eye
is
turned
from
these
operations
to
the
houses
themselves
,
his
utmost
astonishment
will
be
excited
by
the
scene
before
him
.
Crazy
wooden
galleries
common
to
the
backs
of
half
a
dozen
houses
,
with
holes
from
which
to
look
upon
the
slime
beneath
;
windows
,
broken
and
patched
,
with
poles
thrust
out
,
on
which
to
dry
the
linen
that
is
never
there
;
rooms
so
small
,
so
filthy
,
so
confined
,
that
the
air
would
seem
too
tainted
even
for
the
dirt
and
squalor
which
they
shelter
;
wooden
chambers
thrusting
themselves
out
above
the
mud
,
and
threatening
to
fall
into
it
--
as
some
have
done
;
dirt-besmeared
walls
and
decaying
foundations
;
every
repulsive
lineament
of
poverty
,
every
loathsome
indication
of
filth
,
rot
,
and
garbage
;
all
these
ornament
the
banks
of
Folly
Ditch
.
In
Jacob
's
Island
,
the
warehouses
are
roofless
and
empty
;
the
walls
are
crumbling
down
;
the
windows
are
windows
no
more
;
the
doors
are
falling
into
the
streets
;
the
chimneys
are
blackened
,
but
they
yield
no
smoke
.
Thirty
or
forty
years
ago
,
before
losses
and
chancery
suits
came
upon
it
,
it
was
a
thriving
place
;
but
now
it
is
a
desolate
island
indeed
.
The
houses
have
no
owners
;
they
are
broken
open
,
and
entered
upon
by
those
who
have
the
courage
;
and
there
they
live
,
and
there
they
die
.
They
must
have
powerful
motives
for
a
secret
residence
,
or
be
reduced
to
a
destitute
condition
indeed
,
who
seek
a
refuge
in
Jacob
's
Island
.
In
an
upper
room
of
one
of
these
houses
--
a
detached
house
of
fair
size
,
ruinous
in
other
respects
,
but
strongly
defended
at
door
and
window
:
of
which
house
the
back
commanded
the
ditch
in
manner
already
described
--
there
were
assembled
three
men
,
who
,
regarding
each
other
every
now
and
then
with
looks
expressive
of
perplexity
and
expectation
,
sat
for
some
time
in
profound
and
gloomy
silence
.
One
of
these
was
Toby
Crackit
,
another
Mr.
Chitling
,
and
the
third
a
robber
of
fifty
years
,
whose
nose
had
been
almost
beaten
in
,
in
some
old
scuffle
,
and
whose
face
bore
a
frightful
scar
which
might
probably
be
traced
to
the
same
occasion
.
This
man
was
a
returned
transport
,
and
his
name
was
Kags
.
