Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 3. Home

           Withthesematerialsandtheaidofthekettle,hefilledatumblerwithahotandodorousmixture,measuredoutandcompoundedwithasmuchnicetyasaphysician’sprescription.IntothismixtureMrsClennamdippedcertainoftherusks,andatethem;whiletheoldwomanbutteredcertainotheroftherusks,whichweretobeeatenalone.Whentheinvalidhadeatenalltherusksanddrunkallthemixture,thetwotrayswereremoved;andthebooksandthecandle,watch,handkerchief,andspectacleswerereplaceduponthetable.Shethenputonthespectaclesandreadcertainpassagesaloudfromabook—sternly,fiercely,wrathfully—prayingthatherenemies(shemadethembyhertoneandmannerexpresslyhers)mightbeputtotheedgeofthesword,consumedbyfire,smittenbyplaguesandleprosy,thattheirbonesmightbegroundtodust,andthattheymightbeutterlyexterminated.Asshereadon,yearsseemedtofallawayfromhersonliketheimaginingsofadream,andalltheolddarkhorrorsofhisusualpreparationforthesleepofaninnocentchildtoovershadowhim.

           Sheshutthebookandremainedforalittletimewithherfaceshadedbyherhand.Sodidtheoldman,otherwisestillunchangedinattitude;so,probably,didtheoldwomaninherdimmerpartoftheroom.Thenthesickwomanwasreadyforbed.

           ‘Goodnight,Arthur.Afferywillseetoyouraccommodation.Onlytouchme,formyhandistender.’Hetouchedtheworstedmufflingofherhand—thatwasnothing;ifhismotherhadbeensheathedinbrasstherewouldhavebeennonewbarrierbetweenthem—andfollowedtheoldmanandwomandown-stairs.

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