Холодный дом

The Smallweed Family

           Thelittlemanisdressedsomethinglikeagunsmith,inagreen-baizeapronandcap;andhisfaceandhandsaredirtywithgunpowderandbegrimedwiththeloadingofguns.Asheliesinthelightbeforeaglaringwhitetarget,theblackuponhimshinesagain.Notfaroffisthestrong,rough,primitivetablewithaviceuponitatwhichhehasbeenworking.Heisalittlemanwithafaceallcrushedtogether,whoappears,fromacertainblueandspeckledappearancethatoneofhischeekspresents,tohavebeenblownup,inthewayofbusiness,atsomeoddtimeortimes."Phil!"saysthetrooperinaquietvoice."Allright!"criesPhil,scramblingtohisfeet."Anythingbeendoing?""Flataseversomuchswipes,"saysPhil."Fivedozenrifleandadozenpistol.Astoaim!"Philgivesahowlattherecollection."Shutupshop,Phil!"AsPhilmovesabouttoexecutethisorder,itappearsthatheislame,thoughabletomoveveryquickly.Onthespeckledsideofhisfacehehasnoeyebrow,andontheothersidehehasabushyblackone,whichwantofuniformitygiveshimaverysingularandrathersinisterappearance.Everythingseemstohavehappenedtohishandsthatcouldpossiblytakeplaceconsistentlywiththeretentionofallthefingers,fortheyarenotched,andseamed,andcrumpledallover.Heappearstobeverystrongandliftsheavybenchesaboutasifhehadnoideawhatweightwas

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