Олівер Твіст

Chapter 16

           ItwasSmithfieldthattheywerecrossing,althoughitmighthavebeenGrosvenorSquare,foranythingOliverknewtothecontrary.Thenightwasdarkandfoggy.Thelightsintheshopscouldscarecelystrugglethroughtheheavymist,whichthickenedeverymomentandshroudedthestreetsandhousesingloom;renderingthestrangeplacestillstrangerinOliver’seyes;andmakinghisuncertaintythemoredismalanddepressing.

           Theyhadhurriedonafewpaces,whenadeepchurch-bellstruckthehour.Withitsfirststroke,histwoconductorsstopped,andturnedtheirheadsinthedirectionwhencethesoundproceeded.

           ‘Eighto’clock,Bill,’saidNancy,whenthebellceased.

           ‘What’sthegoodoftellingmethat;Icanhearit,can’tI!’repliedSikes.

           ‘IwonderwhetherTHEYcanhearit,’saidNancy.

           ‘Ofcoursetheycan,’repliedSikes.‘ItwasBartlemytimewhenIwasshopped;andtherewarn’tapennytrumpetinthefair,asIcouldn’thearthesqueakingon.ArterIwaslockedupforthenight,therowanddinoutsidemadethethunderingoldjailsosilent,thatIcouldalmosthavebeatmybrainsoutagainsttheironplatesofthedoor.

           ‘Poorfellow!’saidNancy,whostillhadherfaceturnedtowardsthequarterinwhichthebellhadsounded.‘Oh,Bill,suchfineyoungchapsasthem!’

           ‘Yes;that’sallyouwomenthinkof,’answeredSikes.‘Fineyoungchaps!Well,they’reasgoodasdead,soitdon’tmuchmatter.

           Withthisconsolation,Mr.

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