Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 3. Home

           Hetookanothercandlefromacupboard,lightedit,leftthefirstonthetable,andwentuponhiserrand.Hewasashort,baldoldman,inahigh-shoulderedblackcoatandwaistcoat,drabbreeches,andlongdrabgaiters.Hemight,fromhisdress,havebeeneitherclerkorservant,andinfacthadlongbeenboth.Therewasnothingabouthiminthewayofdecorationbutawatch,whichwasloweredintothedepthsofitsproperpocketbyanoldblackribbon,andhadatarnishedcopperkeymooredaboveit,toshowwhereitwassunk.Hisheadwasawry,andhehadaone-sided,crab-likewaywithhim,asifhisfoundationshadyieldedataboutthesametimeasthoseofthehouse,andheoughttohavebeenproppedupinasimilarmanner.

           ‘HowweakamI,’saidArthurClennam,whenhewasgone,‘thatIcouldshedtearsatthisreception!I,whohaveneverexperiencedanythingelse;whohaveneverexpectedanythingelse.’

           Henotonlycould,butdid.Itwasthemomentaryyieldingofanaturethathadbeendisappointedfromthedawnofitsperceptions,buthadnotquitegivenupallitshopefulyearningsyet.Hesubduedit,tookupthecandle,andexaminedtheroom.Theoldarticlesoffurniturewereintheiroldplaces;thePlaguesofEgypt,muchthedimmerfortheflyandsmokeplaguesofLondon,wereframedandglazeduponthewalls.

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