Холодный дом

The Law-Writer

           Tulkinghorngoes,asthecrowcamenotquitesostraight,butnearlytoCook’sCourt,CursitorStreet.ToSnagsby’s,Law-Stationer’s,Deedsengrossedandcopied,Law-Writingexecutedinallitsbranches,&c.,&c.,&c.Itissomewhereaboutfiveorsixo’clockintheafternoon,andabalmyfragranceofwarmteahoversinCook’sCourt.IthoversaboutSnagsby’sdoor.Thehoursareearlythere:dinnerathalf-pastoneandsupperathalf-pastnine.Mr.Snagsbywasabouttodescendintothesubterraneanregionstotaketeawhenhelookedoutofhisdoorjustnowandsawthecrowwhowasoutlate."Masterathome?"Gusterismindingtheshop,forthe’prenticestaketeainthekitchenwithMr.andMrs.Snagsby;consequently,therobe-maker’stwodaughters,combingtheircurlsatthetwoglassesinthetwosecond-floorwindowsoftheoppositehouse,arenotdrivingthetwo’prenticestodistractionastheyfondlysuppose,butaremerelyawakeningtheunprofitableadmirationofGuster,whosehairwon’tgrow,andneverwould,anditisconfidentlythought,neverwill."Masterathome?"saysMr.Tulkinghorn.Masterisathome,andGusterwillfetchhim.Gusterdisappears,gladtogetoutoftheshop,whichsheregardswithmingleddreadandvenerationasastorehouseofawfulimplementsofthegreattortureofthelawaplacenottobeenteredafterthegasisturnedoff.Mr.Snagsbyappears,greasy,warm,herbaceous,andchewing.Boltsabitofbreadandbutter.Says,"Blessmysoul,sir!Mr.Tulkinghorn!""Iwanthalfawordwithyou,Snagsby.

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