Крошка Доррит

Chapter 3. Home

           TherewastheinterminableSundayofhisnonage;whenhismother,sternoffaceandunrelentingofheart,wouldsitalldaybehindaBible—bound,likeherownconstructionofit,inthehardest,barest,andstraitestboards,withonedintedornamentonthecoverlikethedragofachain,andawrathfulsprinklingofredupontheedgesoftheleaves—asifit,ofallbooks!wereafortificationagainstsweetnessoftemper,naturalaffection,andgentleintercourse.TherewastheresentfulSundayofalittlelater,whenhesatdowngloweringandgloomingthroughthetardylengthoftheday,withasullensenseofinjuryinhisheart,andnomorerealknowledgeofthebeneficenthistoryoftheNewTestamentthanifhehadbeenbredamongidolaters.TherewasalegionofSundays,alldaysofunserviceablebitternessandmortification,slowlypassingbeforehim.

           ‘Begpardon,sir,’saidabriskwaiter,rubbingthetable.‘Wishseebed-room?’

           ‘Yes.Ihavejustmadeupmymindtodoit.’

           ‘Chaymaid!’criedthewaiter.‘Gelenboxnumsevenwishseeroom!’

           ‘Stay!’saidClennam,rousinghimself.‘IwasnotthinkingofwhatIsaid;Iansweredmechanically.Iamnotgoingtosleephere.Iamgoinghome.’

           ‘Deed,sir?Chaymaid!Gelenboxnumseven,notgosleephere,gome.’

           Hesatinthesameplaceasthedaydied,lookingatthedullhousesopposite,andthinking,ifthedisembodiedspiritsofformerinhabitantswereeverconsciousofthem,howtheymustpitythemselvesfortheiroldplacesofimprisonment.

Настройки
Фон страницы
Размер шрифта
Межстрочный интервал
Фразовые глаголы
Показать / Скрыть меню
Шрифт
Roboto Lora
Уведомления
Страница 45 из 1266