Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 8. The Lock

           Thewindowwascurtained,andthefloorcarpeted;andtherewereshelvesandpegs,andothersuchconveniences,thathadaccumulatedinthecourseofyears.Itwasaclose,confinedroom,poorlyfurnished;andthechimneysmokedtoboot,orthetinscreenatthetopofthefireplacewassuperfluous;butconstantpainsandcarehadmadeitneat,andeven,afteritskind,comfortable.

           Allthewhilethebellwasringing,andtheunclewasanxioustogo.‘Come,Fanny,come,Fanny,’hesaid,withhisraggedclarionetcaseunderhisarm;‘thelock,child,thelock!’

           Fannybadeherfathergoodnight,andwhiskedoffairily.Tiphadalreadyclattereddown-stairs.‘Now,MrClennam,’saidtheuncle,lookingbackasheshuffledoutafterthem,‘thelock,sir,thelock.’

           MrClennamhadtwothingstodobeforehefollowed;one,toofferhistestimonialtotheFatheroftheMarshalsea,withoutgivingpaintohischild;theothertosaysomethingtothatchild,thoughitwerebutaword,inexplanationofhishavingcomethere.

           ‘Allowme,’saidtheFather,‘toseeyoudown-stairs.’

           Shehadslippedoutaftertherest,andtheywerealone.‘Notonanyaccount,’saidthevisitor,hurriedly.‘Prayallowmeto—’chink,chink,chink.

           ‘MrClennam,’saidtheFather,‘Iamdeeply,deeply—’Buthisvisitorhadshutuphishandtostoptheclinking,andhadgonedown-stairswithgreatspeed.

           HesawnoLittleDorritonhiswaydown,orintheyard.

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