Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 3. Home

           Atthequarter,itwentoffintoaconditionofdeadly-livelyimportunity,urgingthepopulaceinavolublemannertoCometochurch,Cometochurch,Cometochurch!Atthetenminutes,itbecameawarethatthecongregationwouldbescanty,andslowlyhammeredoutinlowspirits,Theywon’tcome,theywon’tcome,theywon’tcome!Atthefiveminutes,itabandonedhope,andshookeveryhouseintheneighbourhoodforthreehundredseconds,withonedismalswingpersecond,asagroanofdespair.

           ‘ThankHeaven!’saidClennam,whenthehourstruck,andthebellstopped.

           ButitssoundhadrevivedalongtrainofmiserableSundays,andtheprocessionwouldnotstopwiththebell,butcontinuedtomarchon.‘Heavenforgiveme,’saidhe,‘andthosewhotrainedme.HowIhavehatedthisday!’

           TherewasthedrearySundayofhischildhood,whenhesatwithhishandsbeforehim,scaredoutofhissensesbyahorribletractwhichcommencedbusinesswiththepoorchildbyaskinghiminitstitle,whyhewasgoingtoPerdition?—apieceofcuriositythathereally,inafrockanddrawers,wasnotinaconditiontosatisfy—andwhich,forthefurtherattractionofhisinfantmind,hadaparenthesisineveryotherlinewithsomesuchhiccuppingreferenceas2Ep.Thess.c.iii,v.6&7.TherewasthesleepySundayofhisboyhood,when,likeamilitarydeserter,hewasmarchedtochapelbyapicquetofteachersthreetimesaday,morallyhandcuffedtoanotherboy;andwhenhewouldwillinglyhavebarteredtwomealsofindigestiblesermonforanotherounceortwoofinferiormuttonathisscantydinnerintheflesh.

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