Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 31. Spirit

           ItisnotthatIhaveseenmygoodAmyattentive,and—ha—condescendingtomyoldpensioner—itisnotthatthathurtsme.Itis,ifIamtoclosethepainfulsubjectbybeingexplicit,thatIhaveseenmychild,myownchild,myowndaughter,comingintothisCollegeoutofthepublicstreets—smiling!smiling!—arminarmwith—OmyGod,alivery!’

           Thisreferencetothecoatofnocutandnotime,theunfortunategentlemangaspedforth,inascarcelyaudiblevoice,andwithhisclenchedpocket-handkerchiefraisedintheair.Hisexcitedfeelingsmighthavefoundsomefurtherpainfulutterance,butforaknockatthedoor,whichhadbeenalreadytwicerepeated,andtowhichFanny(stillwishingherselfdead,andindeednowgoingsofarastoadd,buried)cried‘Comein!’

           ‘Ah,YoungJohn!’saidtheFather,inanalteredandcalmedvoice.‘Whatisit,YoungJohn?’

           ‘Aletterforyou,sir,beingleftintheLodgejustthisminute,andamessagewithit,Ithought,happeningtobetheremyself,sir,Iwouldbringittoyourroom.’Thespeaker’sattentionwasmuchdistractedbythepiteousspectacleofLittleDorritatherfather’sfeet,withherheadturnedaway.

           ‘Indeed,John?Thankyou.’

           ‘TheletterisfromMrClennam,sir—it’stheanswer—andthemessagewas,sir,thatMrClennamalsosenthiscompliments,andwordthathewoulddohimselfthepleasureofcallingthisafternoon,hopingtoseeyou,andlikewise,’attentionmoredistractedthanbefore,‘MissAmy.

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