Тяжкі часи

Explosion

           But,whenheistrimmed,smoothed,andvarnished,accordingtothemode;whenheisawearyofvice,andawearyofvirtue,usedupastobrimstone,andusedupastobliss;then,whetherhetaketotheservingoutofredtape,ortothekindlingofredfire,heistheveryDevil.

           SoJamesHarthousereclinedinthewindow,indolentlysmoking,andreckoningupthestepshehadtakenontheroadbywhichhehappenedtobetravelling.Theendtowhichitledwasbeforehim,prettyplainly;buthetroubledhimselfwithnocalculationsaboutit.Whatwillbe,willbe.

           Ashehadratheralongridetotakethatdayfortherewasapublicoccasion‘todo’atsomedistance,whichaffordedatolerableopportunityofgoinginfortheGradgrindmenhedressedearlyandwentdowntobreakfast.Hewasanxioustoseeifshehadrelapsedsincethepreviousevening.No.Heresumedwherehehadleftoff.Therewasalookofinterestforhimagain.

           Hegotthroughthedayasmuch(oraslittle)tohisownsatisfaction,aswastobeexpectedunderthefatiguingcircumstances;andcameridingbackatsixo’clock.Therewasasweepofsomehalf-milebetweenthelodgeandthehouse,andhewasridingalongatafootpaceoverthesmoothgravel,onceNickits’s,whenMr.Bounderbyburstoutoftheshrubbery,withsuchviolenceastomakehishorseshyacrosstheroad.

           ‘Harthouse!’criedMr.Bounderby.‘Haveyouheard?’

           ‘Heardwhat?’saidHarthouse,soothinghishorse,andinwardlyfavouringMr.Bounderbywithnogoodwishes.

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