Chapter 3. Home

           

           ItwasaSundayeveninginLondon,gloomy,close,andstale.Maddeningchurchbellsofalldegreesofdissonance,sharpandflat,crackedandclear,fastandslow,madethebrick-and-mortarechoeshideous.Melancholystreets,inapenitentialgarbofsoot,steepedthesoulsofthepeoplewhowerecondemnedtolookatthemoutofwindows,indiredespondency.Ineverythoroughfare,upalmosteveryalley,anddownalmosteveryturning,somedolefulbellwasthrobbing,jerking,tolling,asifthePlaguewereinthecityandthedead-cartsweregoinground.Everythingwasboltedandbarredthatcouldbypossibilityfurnishrelieftoanoverworkedpeople.Nopictures,nounfamiliaranimals,norareplantsorflowers,nonaturalorartificialwondersoftheancientworld—alltaboowiththatenlightenedstrictness,thattheuglySouthSeagodsintheBritishMuseummighthavesupposedthemselvesathomeagain.Nothingtoseebutstreets,streets,streets.Nothingtobreathebutstreets,streets,streets.Nothingtochangethebroodingmind,orraiseitup.Nothingforthespenttoilertodo,buttocomparethemonotonyofhisseventhdaywiththemonotonyofhissixdays,thinkwhatawearylifeheled,andmakethebestofit—ortheworst,accordingtotheprobabilities.

           Atsuchahappytime,sopropitioustotheinterestsofreligionandmorality,MrArthurClennam,newlyarrivedfromMarseillesbywayofDover,andbyDovercoachtheBlue-eyedMaid,satinthewindowofacoffee-houseonLudgateHill.

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