Холодный дом

Our Dear Brother

           Thesurgeonleansagainstthecornerofthechimney-piece;MissFlitepeepsandtremblesjustwithinthedoor.Theaptoldscholaroftheoldschool,withhisdullblackbreechestiedwithribbonsattheknees,hislargeblackwaistcoat,hislong-sleevedblackcoat,andhiswispoflimpwhiteneckerchieftiedinthebowthepeerageknowssowell,standsinexactlythesameplaceandattitude.Therearesomeworthlessarticlesofclothingintheoldportmanteau;thereisabundleofpawnbrokers’duplicates,thoseturnpiketicketsontheroadofpoverty;thereisacrumpledpaper,smellingofopium,onwhicharescrawledroughmemorandaas,took,suchaday,somanygrains;took,suchanotherday,somanymorebegunsometimeago,asifwiththeintentionofbeingregularlycontinued,butsoonleftoff.Thereareafewdirtyscrapsofnewspapers,allreferringtocoroners’inquests;thereisnothingelse.Theysearchthecupboardandthedraweroftheink-splashedtable.Thereisnotamorselofanoldletterorofanyotherwritingineither.Theyoungsurgeonexaminesthedressonthelaw-writer.Aknifeandsomeoddhalfpenceareallhefinds.Mr.Snagsby’ssuggestionisthepracticalsuggestionafterall,andthebeadlemustbecalledin.Sothelittlecrazylodgergoesforthebeadle,andtherestcomeoutoftheroom."Don’tleavethecatthere!"saysthesurgeon;"thatwon’tdo!"Mr.Krookthereforedrivesheroutbeforehim,andshegoesfurtivelydownstairs,windingherlithetailandlickingherlips."Goodnight!"saysMr.Tulkinghorn,andgoeshometoAllegoryandmeditation.

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