Крихітка Дорріт

Chapter 6. The Father of the Marshalsea

           

           Theturnkeyconductedhim—tremblingfromheadtofoot,andconstantlycryingunderhisbreath,Whatwashetodo!whilehisirresolutefingersbedabbledthetearsuponhisface—uponeofthecommonstaircasesintheprisontoadooronthegarretstory.Uponwhichdoortheturnkeyknockedwiththehandleofhiskey.

           ‘Comein!’criedavoiceinside.

           Theturnkey,openingthedoor,disclosedinawretched,ill-smellinglittleroom,twohoarse,puffy,red-facedpersonagesseatedataricketytable,playingatall-fours,smokingpipes,anddrinkingbrandy.

           ‘Doctor,’saidtheturnkey,‘here’sagentleman’swifeinwantofyouwithoutaminute’slossoftime!’

           Thedoctor’sfriendwasinthepositivedegreeofhoarseness,puffiness,red-facedness,all-fours,tobacco,dirt,andbrandy;thedoctorinthecomparative—hoarser,puffier,morered-faced,moreall-fourey,tobaccoer,dirtier,andbrandier.Thedoctorwasamazinglyshabby,inatornanddarnedrough-weathersea-jacket,outatelbowsandeminentlyshortofbuttons(hehadbeeninhistimetheexperiencedsurgeoncarriedbyapassengership),thedirtiestwhitetrousersconceivablebymortalman,carpetslippers,andnovisiblelinen.‘Childbed?’saidthedoctor.‘I’mtheboy!’Withthatthedoctortookacombfromthechimney-pieceandstuckhishairupright—whichappearedtobehiswayofwashinghimself—producedaprofessionalchestorcase,ofmostabjectappearance,fromthecupboardwherehiscupandsaucerandcoalswere,settledhischininthefrowsywrapperroundhisneck,andbecameaghastlymedicalscarecrow.

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