Холодный дом

The Law-Writer

           ""Certainly,sir!Dearme,sir,whydidn’tyousendyouryoungmanroundforme?Praywalkintothebackshop,sir."Snagsbyhasbrightenedinamoment.Theconfinedroom,strongofparchment-grease,iswarehouse,counting-house,andcopying-office.Mr.Tulkinghornsits,facinground,onastoolatthedesk."JarndyceandJarndyce,Snagsby.""Yes,sir."Mr.Snagsbyturnsupthegasandcoughsbehindhishand,modestlyanticipatingprofit.Mr.Snagsby,asatimidman,isaccustomedtocoughwithavarietyofexpressions,andsotosavewords."Youcopiedsomeaffidavitsinthatcauseformelately.""Yes,sir,wedid.""Therewasoneofthem,"saysMr.Tulkinghorn,carelesslyfeelingtight,unopenableoysteroftheoldschool!inthewrongcoat-pocket,"thehandwritingofwhichispeculiar,andIratherlike.AsIhappenedtobepassing,andthoughtIhaditaboutme,IlookedintoaskyoubutIhaven’tgotit.Nomatter,anyothertimewilldo.Ah!hereitis!Ilookedintoaskyouwhocopiedthis.""Whocopiedthis,sir?"saysMr.Snagsby,takingit,layingitflatonthedesk,andseparatingallthesheetsatoncewithatwirlandatwistofthelefthandpeculiartolawstationers."Wegavethisout,sir.Weweregivingoutratheralargequantityofworkjustatthattime.Icantellyouinamomentwhocopiedit,sir,byreferringtomybook."Mr.Snagsbytakeshisbookdownfromthesafe,makesanotherboltofthebitofbreadandbutterwhichseemedtohavestoppedshort,eyestheaffidavitaside,andbringshisrightforefingertravellingdownapageofthebook,"JewbyPackerJarndyce.

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