Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 9. Little Mother

           

           ‘Ha!’saidhe,veryslowlyrememberingArthur,‘youwereshutinlastnight?’

           ‘Yes,MrDorrit.Ihopetomeetyournieceherepresently.’

           ‘Oh!’saidhe,pondering.‘Outofmybrother’sway?True.Wouldyoucomeup-stairsandwaitforher?’

           ‘Thankyou.’

           Turninghimselfasslowlyasheturnedinhismindwhateverheheardorsaid,heledthewayupthenarrowstairs.Thehousewasveryclose,andhadanunwholesomesmell.Thelittlestaircasewindowslookedinatthebackwindowsofotherhousesasunwholesomeasitself,withpolesandlinesthrustoutofthem,onwhichunsightlylinenhung;asiftheinhabitantswereanglingforclothes,andhadhadsomewretchedbitesnotworthattendingto.Inthebackgarret—asicklyroom,withaturn-upbedsteadinit,sohastilyandrecentlyturnedupthattheblanketswereboilingover,asitwere,andkeepingthelidopen—ahalf-finishedbreakfastofcoffeeandtoastfortwopersonswasjumbleddownanyhowonaricketytable.

           Therewasnoonethere.Theoldmanmumblingtohimself,aftersomeconsideration,thatFannyhadrunaway,wenttothenextroomtofetchherback.Thevisitor,observingthatsheheldthedoorontheinside,andthat,whentheuncletriedtoopenit,therewasasharpadjurationof‘Don’t,stupid!’andanappearanceofloosestockingandflannel,concludedthattheyoungladywasinanundress.Theuncle,withoutappearingtocometoanyconclusion,shuffledinagain,satdowninhischair,andbeganwarminghishandsatthefire;notthatitwascold,orthathehadanywakingideawhetheritwasornot.

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