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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Лавка древностей
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- Стр. 442/459
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A
strange
circumstance
,
a
light
in
such
a
place
at
that
time
of
night
,
with
no
one
near
it
.
A
curtain
was
drawn
across
the
lower
portion
of
the
window
,
and
he
could
not
see
into
the
room
.
But
there
was
no
shadow
thrown
upon
it
from
within
.
To
have
gained
a
footing
on
the
wall
and
tried
to
look
in
from
above
,
would
have
been
attended
with
some
danger
—
certainly
with
some
noise
,
and
the
chance
of
terrifying
the
child
,
if
that
really
were
her
habitation
.
Again
and
again
he
listened
;
again
and
again
the
same
wearisome
blank
.
Leaving
the
spot
with
slow
and
cautious
steps
,
and
skirting
the
ruin
for
a
few
paces
,
he
came
at
length
to
a
door
.
He
knocked
.
No
answer
.
But
there
was
a
curious
noise
inside
.
It
was
difficult
to
determine
what
it
was
.
It
bore
a
resemblance
to
the
low
moaning
of
one
in
pain
,
but
it
was
not
that
,
being
far
too
regular
and
constant
.
Now
it
seemed
a
kind
of
song
,
now
a
wail
—
seemed
,
that
is
,
to
his
changing
fancy
,
for
the
sound
itself
was
never
changed
or
checked
.
It
was
unlike
anything
he
had
ever
heard
;
and
in
its
tone
there
was
something
fearful
,
chilling
,
and
unearthly
.
The
listener
’
s
blood
ran
colder
now
than
ever
it
had
done
in
frost
and
snow
,
but
he
knocked
again
.
There
was
no
answer
,
and
the
sound
went
on
without
any
interruption
.
He
laid
his
hand
softly
upon
the
latch
,
and
put
his
knee
against
the
door
.
It
was
secured
on
the
inside
,
but
yielded
to
the
pressure
,
and
turned
upon
its
hinges
.
He
saw
the
glimmering
of
a
fire
upon
the
old
walls
,
and
entered
.
The
dull
,
red
glow
of
a
wood
fire
—
for
no
lamp
or
candle
burnt
within
the
room
—
showed
him
a
figure
,
seated
on
the
hearth
with
its
back
towards
him
,
bending
over
the
fitful
light
.
The
attitude
was
that
of
one
who
sought
the
heat
.
It
was
,
and
yet
was
not
.
The
stooping
posture
and
the
cowering
form
were
there
,
but
no
hands
were
stretched
out
to
meet
the
grateful
warmth
,
no
shrug
or
shiver
compared
its
luxury
with
the
piercing
cold
outside
.
With
limbs
huddled
together
,
head
bowed
down
,
arms
crossed
upon
the
breast
,
and
fingers
tightly
clenched
,
it
rocked
to
and
fro
upon
its
seat
without
a
moment
’
s
pause
,
accompanying
the
action
with
the
mournful
sound
he
had
heard
.
The
heavy
door
had
closed
behind
him
on
his
entrance
,
with
a
crash
that
made
him
start
.
The
figure
neither
spoke
,
nor
turned
to
look
,
nor
gave
in
any
other
way
the
faintest
sign
of
having
heard
the
noise
.
The
form
was
that
of
an
old
man
,
his
white
head
akin
in
colour
to
the
mouldering
embers
upon
which
he
gazed
.
He
,
and
the
failing
light
and
dying
fire
,
the
time
-
worn
room
,
the
solitude
,
the
wasted
life
,
and
gloom
,
were
all
in
fellowship
.
Ashes
,
and
dust
,
and
ruin
!
Kit
tried
to
speak
,
and
did
pronounce
some
words
,
though
what
they
were
he
scarcely
knew
.
Still
the
same
terrible
low
cry
went
on
—
still
the
same
rocking
in
the
chair
—
the
same
stricken
figure
was
there
,
unchanged
and
heedless
of
his
presence
.
He
had
his
hand
upon
the
latch
,
when
something
in
the
form
—
distinctly
seen
as
one
log
broke
and
fell
,
and
,
as
it
fell
,
blazed
up
—
arrested
it
.
He
returned
to
where
he
had
stood
before
—
advanced
a
pace
—
another
—
another
still
.
Another
,
and
he
saw
the
face
.
Yes
!
Changed
as
it
was
,
he
knew
it
well
.
‘
Master
!
’
he
cried
,
stooping
on
one
knee
and
catching
at
his
hand
.
‘
Dear
master
.
Speak
to
me
!
’
