Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 11. A Letter from Little Dorrit

           Oneofmyfrequentthoughtsisthis:—Oldasthesecitiesare,theirageitselfishardlysocurious,tomyreflections,asthattheyshouldhavebeenintheirplacesallthroughthosedayswhenIdidnotevenknowoftheexistenceofmorethantwoorthreeofthem,andwhenIscarcelyknewofanythingoutsideouroldwalls.Thereissomethingmelancholyinit,andIdon’tknowwhy.WhenwewenttoseethefamousleaningtoweratPisa,itwasabrightsunnyday,anditandthebuildingsnearitlookedsoold,andtheearthandtheskylookedsoyoung,anditsshadowonthegroundwassosoftandretired!Icouldnotatfirstthinkhowbeautifulitwas,orhowcurious,butIthought,‘Ohowmanytimeswhentheshadowofthewallwasfallingonourroom,andwhenthatwearytreadoffeetwasgoingupanddowntheyard—Ohowmanytimesthisplacewasjustasquietandlovelyasitisto-day!’Itquiteoverpoweredme.Myheartwassofullthattearsburstoutofmyeyes,thoughIdidwhatIcouldtorestrainthem.AndIhavethesamefeelingoften—often.

           Doyouknowthatsincethechangeinourfortunes,thoughIappeartomyselftohavedreamedmorethanbefore,Ihavealwaysdreamedofmyselfasveryyoungindeed!Iamnotveryold,youmaysay.No,butthatisnotwhatImean.Ihavealwaysdreamedofmyselfasachildlearningtodoneedlework.

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