Холодный дом

Jo’s Will

           Forthecartsohardtodrawisnearitsjourney’sendanddragsoverstonyground.Allroundtheclockitlaboursupthebrokensteps,shatteredandworn.Notmanytimescanthesunriseandbeholditstilluponitswearyroad.PhilSquod,withhissmokygunpowdervisage,atonceactsasnurseandworksasarmourerathislittletableinacorner,oftenlookingroundandsayingwithanodofhisgreen-baizecapandanencouragingelevationofhisoneeyebrow,"Holdup,myboy!Holdup!"There,too,isMr.Jarndycemanyatime,andAllanWoodcourtalmostalways,boththinking,much,howstrangelyfatehasentangledthisroughoutcastinthewebofverydifferentlives.There,too,thetrooperisafrequentvisitor,fillingthedoorwaywithhisathleticfigureand,fromhissuperfluityoflifeandstrength,seemingtosheddowntemporaryvigouruponJo,whoneverfailstospeakmorerobustlyinanswertohischeerfulwords.Joisinasleeporinastuporto-day,andAllanWoodcourt,newlyarrived,standsbyhim,lookingdownuponhiswastedform.Afterawhilehesoftlyseatshimselfuponthebedsidewithhisfacetowardshimjustashesatinthelaw-writer’sroomandtoucheshischestandheart.Thecarthadverynearlygivenup,butlaboursonalittlemore.Thetrooperstandsinthedoorway,stillandsilent.Philhasstoppedinalowclinkingnoise,withhislittlehammerinhishand.Mr.Woodcourtlooksroundwiththatgraveprofessionalinterestandattentiononhisface,andglancingsignificantlyatthetrooper,signstoPhiltocarryhistableout.

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