Холодный дом

The Track

           AllthestatecoachmeninLondonseemplungedintomourning;andifthatdeadoldmanoftherustygarbbenotbeyondatasteinhorseflesh(whichappearsimpossible),itmustbehighlygratifiedthisday.Quietamongtheundertakersandtheequipagesandthecalvesofsomanylegsallsteepedingrief,Mr.Bucketsitsconcealedinoneoftheinconsolablecarriagesandathiseasesurveysthecrowdthroughthelatticeblinds.Hehasakeeneyeforacrowdasforwhatnot?andlookinghereandthere,nowfromthissideofthecarriage,nowfromtheother,nowupatthehousewindows,nowalongthepeople’sheads,nothingescapeshim."Andthereyouare,mypartner,eh?"saysMr.Buckettohimself,apostrophizingMrs.Bucket,stationed,byhisfavour,onthestepsofthedeceased’shouse."Andsoyouare.Andsoyouare!Andverywellindeedyouarelooking,Mrs.Bucket!"Theprocessionhasnotstartedyet,butiswaitingforthecauseofitsassemblagetobebroughtout.Mr.Bucket,intheforemostemblazonedcarriage,useshistwofatforefingerstoholdthelatticeahair’sbreadthopenwhilehelooks.Anditsaysagreatdealforhisattachment,asahusband,thatheisstilloccupiedwithMrs.B."Thereyouare,mypartner,eh?"hemurmuringlyrepeats."Andourlodgerwithyou.I’mtakingnoticeofyou,Mrs.Bucket;Ihopeyou’reallrightinyourhealth,mydear!"NotanotherworddoesMr.

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