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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Оливер Твист
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'
What
's
that
,
sir
?
'
inquired
poor
Oliver
.
'
The
boy
IS
a
fool
--
I
thought
he
was
,
'
said
the
gentleman
in
the
white
waistcoat
.
'
Hush
!
'
said
the
gentleman
who
had
spoken
first
.
'
You
know
you
've
got
no
father
or
mother
,
and
that
you
were
brought
up
by
the
parish
,
do
n't
you
?
'
'
Yes
,
sir
,
'
replied
Oliver
,
weeping
bitterly
.
'
What
are
you
crying
for
?
'
inquired
the
gentleman
in
the
white
waistcoat
.
And
to
be
sure
it
was
very
extraordinary
.
What
COULD
the
boy
be
crying
for
?
'
I
hope
you
say
your
prayers
every
night
,
'
said
another
gentleman
in
a
gruff
voice
;
'
and
pray
for
the
people
who
feed
you
,
and
take
care
of
you
--
like
a
Christian
.
'
'
Yes
,
sir
,
'
stammered
the
boy
.
The
gentleman
who
spoke
last
was
unconsciously
right
.
It
would
have
been
very
like
a
Christian
,
and
a
marvellously
good
Christian
too
,
if
Oliver
had
prayed
for
the
people
who
fed
and
took
care
of
HIM
.
But
he
had
n't
,
because
nobody
had
taught
him
.
'
Well
!
You
have
come
here
to
be
educated
,
and
taught
a
useful
trade
,
'
said
the
red-faced
gentleman
in
the
high
chair
.
'
So
you
'll
begin
to
pick
oakum
to-morrow
morning
at
six
o'clock
,
'
added
the
surly
one
in
the
white
waistcoat
.
For
the
combination
of
both
these
blessings
in
the
one
simple
process
of
picking
oakum
,
Oliver
bowed
low
by
the
direction
of
the
beadle
,
and
was
then
hurried
away
to
a
large
ward
;
where
,
on
a
rough
,
hard
bed
,
he
sobbed
himself
to
sleep
.
What
a
novel
illustration
of
the
tender
laws
of
England
!
They
let
the
paupers
go
to
sleep
!
