Холодный дом

Esther’s Narrative

           Irecollectthewethouse-tops,thecloggedandburstingguttersandwater-spouts,themoundsofblackenediceandsnowoverwhichwepassed,thenarrownessofthecourtsbywhichwewent.AtthesametimeIrememberthatthepoorgirlseemedtobeyettellingherstoryaudiblyandplainlyinmyhearing,thatIcouldfeelherrestingonmyarm,thatthestainedhouse-frontsputonhumanshapesandlookedatme,thatgreatwater-gatesseemedtobeopeningandclosinginmyheadorintheair,andthattheunrealthingsweremoresubstantialthanthereal.Atlastwestoodunderadarkandmiserablecoveredway,whereonelampwasburningoveranirongateandwherethemorningfaintlystruggledin.Thegatewasclosed.Beyonditwasaburialgroundadreadfulspotinwhichthenightwasveryslowlystirring,butwhereIcoulddimlyseeheapsofdishonouredgravesandstones,hemmedinbyfilthyhouseswithafewdulllightsintheirwindowsandonwhosewallsathickhumiditybrokeoutlikeadisease.Onthestepatthegate,drenchedinthefearfulwetofsuchaplace,whichoozedandsplasheddowneverywhere,Isaw,withacryofpityandhorror,awomanlyingJenny,themotherofthedeadchild.Iranforward,buttheystoppedme,andMr.Woodcourtentreatedmewiththegreatestearnestness,evenwithtears,beforeIwentuptothefiguretolistenforaninstanttowhatMr.Bucketsaid.Ididso,asIthought.Ididso,asIamsure."MissSummerson,you’llunderstandme,ifyouthinkamoment.Theychangedclothesatthecottage."Theychangedclothesatthecottage.

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