Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 3. Home

           

           ‘Iamable,’saidMrsClennam,withaslightmotionofherworsted-muffledrighthandtowardachaironwheels,standingbeforeatallwritingcabinetcloseshutup,‘Iamabletoattendtomybusinessduties,andIamthankfulfortheprivilege.Itisagreatprivilege.Butnomoreofbusinessonthisday.Itisabadnight,isitnot?’

           ‘Yes,mother.’

           ‘Doesitsnow?’

           ‘Snow,mother?AndweonlyyetinSeptember?’

           ‘Allseasonsarealiketome,’shereturned,withagrimkindofluxuriousness.‘Iknownothingofsummerandwinter,shutuphere.TheLordhasbeenpleasedtoputmebeyondallthat.’Withhercoldgreyeyesandhercoldgreyhair,andherimmovableface,asstiffasthefoldsofherstonyhead-dress,—herbeingbeyondthereachoftheseasonsseemedbutafitsequencetoherbeingbeyondthereachofallchangingemotions.

           Onherlittletablelaytwoorthreebooks,herhandkerchief,apairofsteelspectaclesnewlytakenoff,andanold-fashionedgoldwatchinaheavydoublecase.Uponthislastobjectherson’seyesandherownnowrestedtogether.

           ‘IseethatyoureceivedthepacketIsentyouonmyfather’sdeath,safely,mother.’

           ‘Yousee.’

           ‘Ineverknewmyfathertoshowsomuchanxietyonanysubject,asthathiswatchshouldbesentstraighttoyou.’

           ‘Ikeepithereasaremembranceofyourfather.’

           ‘Itwasnotuntilthelast,thatheexpressedthewish;whenhecouldonlyputhishanduponit,andveryindistinctlysaytome“yourmother.

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