Chapter 9. Little Mother

           

           ThemorninglightwasinnohurrytoclimbtheprisonwallandlookinattheSnuggerywindows;andwhenitdidcome,itwouldhavebeenmorewelcomeifithadcomealone,insteadofbringingarushofrainwithit.Buttheequinoctialgaleswereblowingoutatsea,andtheimpartialsouth-westwind,initsflight,wouldnotneglecteventhenarrowMarshalsea.WhileitroaredthroughthesteepleofStGeorge’sChurch,andtwirledallthecowlsintheneighbourhood,itmadeaswooptobeattheSouthwarksmokeintothejail;and,plungingdownthechimneysofthefewearlycollegianswhowereyetlightingtheirfires,halfsuffocatedthem.

           ArthurClennamwouldhavebeenlittledisposedtolingerinbed,thoughhisbedhadbeeninamoreprivatesituation,andlessaffectedbytherakingoutofyesterday’sfire,thekindlingofto-day’sunderthecollegiateboiler,thefillingofthatSpartanvesselatthepump,thesweepingandsawdustingofthecommonroom,andothersuchpreparations.Heartilygladtoseethemorning,thoughlittlerestedbythenight,heturnedoutassoonashecoulddistinguishobjectsabouthim,andpacedtheyardfortwoheavyhoursbeforethegatewasopened.

           Thewallsweresoneartooneanother,andthewildcloudshurriedoverthemsofast,thatitgavehimasensationlikethebeginningofsea-sicknesstolookupatthegustysky.

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