Крошка Доррит

Chapter 3. Home

           Passing,nowthemouldyhallofsomeobsoleteWorshipfulCompany,nowtheilluminatedwindowsofaCongregationlessChurchthatseemedtobewaitingforsomeadventurousBelzonitodigitoutanddiscoveritshistory;passingsilentwarehousesandwharves,andhereandthereanarrowalleyleadingtotheriver,whereawretchedlittlebill,FOUNDDROWNED,wasweepingonthewetwall;hecameatlasttothehousehesought.Anoldbrickhouse,sodingyastobeallbutblack,standingbyitselfwithinagateway.Beforeit,asquarecourt-yardwhereashrubortwoandapatchofgrasswereasrank(whichissayingmuch)astheironrailingsenclosingthemwererusty;behindit,ajumbleofroots.Itwasadoublehouse,withlong,narrow,heavily-framedwindows.Manyyearsago,ithadhaditinitsmindtoslidedownsideways;ithadbeenproppedup,however,andwasleaningonsomehalf-dozengiganticcrutches:whichgymnasiumfortheneighbouringcats,weather-stained,smoke-blackened,andovergrownwithweeds,appearedintheselatterdaystobenoverysurereliance.

           ‘Nothingchanged,’saidthetraveller,stoppingtolookround.‘Darkandmiserableasever.Alightinmymother’swindow,whichseemsnevertohavebeenextinguishedsinceIcamehometwiceayearfromschool,anddraggedmyboxoverthispavement.Well,well,well!’

           Hewentuptothedoor,whichhadaprojectingcanopyincarvedworkoffestoonedjack-towelsandchildren’sheadswithwateronthebrain,designedafteraonce-popularmonumentalpattern,andknocked.

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