Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 11. A Letter from Little Dorrit

           Thewindowsareblockedupwhereanyonecouldlookout,andthewallshavebeenalldrawnoverwithchalkandcharcoalbyotherswhohavelivedtherebefore—oh,—Ishouldthink,foryears!Thereisacurtainmoredust-colouredthanred,whichdividesit,andthepartbehindthecurtainmakestheprivatesitting-room.WhenIfirstsawherthereshewasalone,andherworkhadfallenoutofherhand,andshewaslookingupattheskyshiningthroughthetopsofthewindows.PraydonotbeuneasywhenItellyou,butitwasnotquitesoairy,norsobright,norsocheerful,norsohappyandyouthfulaltogetherasIshouldhavelikedittobe.

           OnaccountofMrGowan’spaintingPapa’spicture(whichIamnotquiteconvincedIshouldhaveknownfromthelikenessifIhadnotseenhimdoingit),IhavehadmoreopportunitiesofbeingwithhersincethenthanImighthavehadwithoutthisfortunatechance.Sheisverymuchalone.Verymuchaloneindeed.

           ShallItellyouaboutthesecondtimeIsawher?Iwentoneday,whenithappenedthatIcouldrunroundbymyself,atfourorfiveo’clockintheafternoon.Shewasthendiningalone,andhersolitarydinnerhadbeenbroughtinfromsomewhere,overakindofbrazierwithafireinit,andshehadnocompanyorprospectofcompany,thatIcouldsee,buttheoldmanwhohadbroughtit.Hewastellingheralongstory(ofrobbersoutsidethewallsbeingtakenupbyastonestatueofaSaint),toentertainher—ashesaidtomewhenIcameout,‘becausehehadadaughterofhisown,thoughshewasnotsopretty.

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