Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 3. Home

           Therewastheoldcellaretwithnothinginit,linedwithlead,likeasortofcoffinincompartments;therewastheolddarkcloset,alsowithnothinginit,ofwhichhehadbeenmanyatimethesolecontents,indaysofpunishment,whenhehadregardeditastheveritableentrancetothatbournetowhichthetracthadfoundhimgalloping.Therewasthelarge,hard-featuredclockonthesideboard,whichheusedtoseebendingitsfiguredbrowsuponhimwithasavagejoywhenhewasbehind-handwithhislessons,andwhich,whenitwaswounduponceaweekwithanironhandle,usedtosoundasifitweregrowlinginferociousanticipationofthemiseriesintowhichitwouldbringhim.Butherewastheoldmancomeback,saying,‘Arthur,I’llgobeforeandlightyou.’

           Arthurfollowedhimupthestaircase,whichwaspanelledoffintospaceslikesomanymourningtablets,intoadimbed-chamber,thefloorofwhichhadgraduallysosunkandsettled,thatthefire-placewasinadell.Onablackbier-likesofainthishollow,proppedupbehindwithonegreatangularblackbolsterliketheblockatastateexecutioninthegoodoldtimes,sathismotherinawidow’sdress.

           Sheandhisfatherhadbeenatvariancefromhisearliestremembrance.Tositspeechlesshimselfinthemidstofrigidsilence,glancingindreadfromtheoneavertedfacetotheother,hadbeenthepeacefullestoccupationofhischildhood.Shegavehimoneglassykiss,andfourstifffingersmuffledinworsted.Thisembraceconcluded,hesatdownontheoppositesideofherlittletable.

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