Крошка Доррит

Chapter 3. Home

           Tenthousandresponsiblehousessurroundedhim,frowningasheavilyonthestreetstheycomposed,asiftheywereeveryoneinhabitedbythetenyoungmenoftheCalender’sstory,whoblackenedtheirfacesandbemoanedtheirmiserieseverynight.FiftythousandlairssurroundedhimwherepeoplelivedsounwholesomelythatfairwaterputintotheircrowdedroomsonSaturdaynight,wouldbecorruptonSundaymorning;albeitmylord,theircountymember,wasamazedthattheyfailedtosleepincompanywiththeirbutcher’smeat.Milesofclosewellsandpitsofhouses,wheretheinhabitantsgaspedforair,stretchedfarawaytowardseverypointofthecompass.Throughtheheartofthetownadeadlysewerebbedandflowed,intheplaceofafinefreshriver.Whatsecularwantcouldthemillionorsoofhumanbeingswhosedailylabour,sixdaysintheweek,layamongtheseArcadianobjects,fromthesweetsamenessofwhichtheyhadnoescapebetweenthecradleandthegrave—whatsecularwantcouldtheypossiblyhaveupontheirseventhday?Clearlytheycouldwantnothingbutastringentpoliceman.

           MrArthurClennamsatinthewindowofthecoffee-houseonLudgateHill,countingoneoftheneighbouringbells,makingsentencesandburdensofsongsoutofitinspiteofhimself,andwonderinghowmanysickpeopleitmightbethedeathofinthecourseoftheyear.Asthehourapproached,itschangesofmeasuremadeitmoreandmoreexasperating.

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