Крошка Доррит

Chapter 7. The Child of the Marshalsea

           

           Withapitifulandplaintivelookforeverything,indeed,butwithsomethinginitforonlyhimthatwaslikeprotection,thisChildoftheMarshalseaandthechildoftheFatheroftheMarshalsea,satbyherfriendtheturnkeyinthelodge,keptthefamilyroom,orwanderedabouttheprison-yard,forthefirsteightyearsofherlife.Withapitifulandplaintivelookforherwaywardsister;forheridlebrother;forthehighblankwalls;forthefadedcrowdtheyshutin;forthegamesoftheprisonchildrenastheywhoopedandran,andplayedathide-and-seek,andmadetheironbarsoftheinnergateway‘Home.’

           Wistfulandwondering,shewouldsitinsummerweatherbythehighfenderinthelodge,lookingupattheskythroughthebarredwindow,until,whensheturnedhereyesaway,barsoflightwouldarisebetweenherandherfriend,andshewouldseehimthroughagrating,too.

           ‘Thinkingofthefields,’theturnkeysaidonce,afterwatchingher,‘ain’tyou?’

           ‘Wherearethey?’sheinquired.

           ‘Why,they’re—overthere,mydear,’saidtheturnkey,withavagueflourishofhiskey.‘Justaboutthere.’

           ‘Doesanybodyopenthem,andshutthem?Aretheylocked?’

           Theturnkeywasdiscomfited.‘Well,’hesaid.‘Notingeneral.’

           ‘Aretheyverypretty,Bob?’ShecalledhimBob,byhisownparticularrequestandinstruction.

           ‘Lovely.Fullofflowers.There’sbuttercups,andthere’sdaisies,andthere’s’—theturnkeyhesitated,beingshortoffloralnomenclature—‘there’sdandelions,andallmannerofgames.

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