Ярмарка тщеславия

Crawley of Queen’s Crawley

           Thefaithfulchambersseem,asitwere,tomourntheabsenceoftheirmasters.Theturkeycarpethasrolleditselfup,andretiredsulkilyunderthesideboard:thepictureshavehiddentheirfacesbehindoldsheetsofbrownpaper:theceilinglampismuffledupinadismalsackofbrownholland:thewindow-curtainshavedisappearedunderallsortsofshabbyenvelopes:themarblebustofSirWalpoleCrawleyislookingfromitsblackcorneratthebareboardsandtheoiledfire-irons,andtheemptycard-racksoverthemantelpiece:thecellarethaslurkedawaybehindthecarpet:thechairsareturnedupheadsandtailsalongthewalls:andinthedarkcorneroppositethestatue,isanold-fashionedcrabbedknife-box,lockedandsittingonadumbwaiter.

           Twokitchenchairs,andaroundtable,andanattenuatedoldpokerandtongswere,however,gatheredroundthefire-place,aswasasaucepanoverafeeblesputteringfire.Therewasabitofcheeseandbread,andatincandlestickonthetable,andalittleblackporterinapint-pot.

           "Hadyourdinner,Isuppose?Itisnottoowarmforyou?Likeadropofbeer?"

           "WhereisSirPittCrawley?"saidMissSharpmajestically.

           "He,he!I’mSirPittCrawley.Reklectyouowemeapintforbringingdownyourluggage.He,he!AskTinkerifIaynt.Mrs.Tinker,MissSharp;MissGoverness,Mrs.Charwoman.Ho,ho!"

           TheladyaddressedasMrs.

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