Олівер Твіст

Chapter 18

           Itwasaverydirtyplace.Theroomsupstairshadgreathighwoodenchimney-piecesandlargedoors,withpanelledwallsandcornicestotheceiling;which,althoughtheywereblackwithneglectanddust,wereornamentedinvariousways.FromallofthesetokensOliverconcludedthatalongtimeago,beforetheoldJewwasborn,ithadbelongedtobetterpeople,andhadperhapsbeenquitegayandhandsome:dismalanddrearyasitlookednow.

           Spidershadbuilttheirwebsintheanglesofthewallsandceilings;andsometimes,whenOliverwalkedsoftlyintoaroom,themicewouldscamperacrossthefloor,andrunbackterrifiedtotheirholes.Withtheseexceptions,therewasneithersightnorsoundofanylivingthing;andoften,whenitgrewdark,andhewastiredofwanderingfromroomtoroom,hewouldcrouchinthecornerofthepassagebythestreet-door,tobeasnearlivingpeopleashecould;andwouldremainthere,listeningandcountingthehours,untiltheJewortheboysreturned.

           Inalltherooms,themoulderingshutterswerefastclosed:thebarswhichheldthemwerescrewedtightintothewood;theonlylightwhichwasadmitted,stealingitswaythroughroundholesatthetop:whichmadetheroomsmoregloomy,andfilledthemwithstrangeshadows.Therewasaback-garretwindowwithrustybarsoutside,whichhadnoshutter;andoutofthis,Oliveroftengazedwithamelancholyfaceforhourstogether;butnothingwastobedescriedfromitbutaconfusedandcrowdedmassofhousetops,blackenedchimneys,andgable-ends.

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