Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 3. Home

           Therewasafireinthegrate,astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears.Therewasakettleonthehob,astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears.Therewasalittlemoundofdampedashesonthetopofthefire,andanotherlittlemoundswepttogetherunderthegrate,astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears.Therewasasmellofblackdyeintheairlessroom,whichthefirehadbeendrawingoutofthecrapeandstuffofthewidow’sdressforfifteenmonths,andoutofthebier-likesofaforfifteenyears.

           ‘Mother,thisisachangefromyouroldactivehabits.’

           ‘Theworldhasnarrowedtothesedimensions,Arthur,’shereplied,glancingroundtheroom.‘ItiswellformethatIneversetmyheartuponitshollowvanities.’

           Theoldinfluenceofherpresenceandhersternstrongvoice,sogatheredaboutherson,thathefeltconsciousofarenewalofthetimidchillandreserveofhischildhood.

           ‘Doyouneverleaveyourroom,mother?’

           ‘Whatwithmyrheumaticaffection,andwhatwithitsattendantdebilityornervousweakness—namesareofnomatternow—Ihavelosttheuseofmylimbs.Ineverleavemyroom.Ihavenotbeenoutsidethisdoorfor—tellhimforhowlong,’shesaid,speakingoverhershoulder.

           ‘AdozenyearnextChristmas,’returnedacrackedvoiceoutofthedimnessbehind.

           ‘IsthatAffery?’saidArthur,lookingtowardsit.

           ThecrackedvoicerepliedthatitwasAffery:andanoldwomancameforwardintowhatdoubtfullighttherewas,andkissedherhandonce;thensubsidedagainintothedimness.

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