Холодный дом

Mr. Bucket

           Bythenoisomewaysthroughwhichtheydescendedintothatpit,theygraduallyemergefromit,thecrowdflitting,andwhistling,andskulkingaboutthemuntiltheycometotheverge,whererestorationofthebull’s-eyesismadetoDarby.Herethecrowd,likeaconcourseofimprisoneddemons,turnsback,yelling,andisseennomore.Throughtheclearerandfresherstreets,neversoclearandfreshtoMr.Snagsby’smindasnow,theywalkandrideuntiltheycometoMr.Tulkinghorn’sgate.Astheyascendthedimstairs(Mr.Tulkinghorn’schambersbeingonthefirstfloor),Mr.Bucketmentionsthathehasthekeyoftheouterdoorinhispocketandthatthereisnoneedtoring.Foramansoexpertinmostthingsofthatkind,Buckettakestimetoopenthedoorandmakessomenoisetoo.Itmaybethathesoundsanoteofpreparation.Howbeit,theycomeatlastintothehall,wherealampisburning,andsointoMr.Tulkinghorn’susualroomtheroomwherehedrankhisoldwineto-night.Heisnotthere,buthistwoold-fashionedcandlesticksare,andtheroomistolerablylight.Mr.Bucket,stillhavinghisprofessionalholdofJoandappearingtoMr.Snagsbytopossessanunlimitednumberofeyes,makesalittlewayintothisroom,whenJostartsandstops."What’sthematter?"saysBucketinawhisper."Theresheis!"criesJo."Who!""Thelady!"Afemalefigure,closelyveiled,standsinthemiddleoftheroom,wherethelightfallsuponit.Itisquitestillandsilent.Thefrontofthefigureistowardsthem,butittakesnonoticeoftheirentranceandremainslikeastatue.

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