Олівер Твіст

Chapter 32

           Everymorninghewenttoawhite-headedoldgentleman,wholivednearthelittlechurch:whotaughthimtoreadbetter,andtowrite:andwhospokesokindly,andtooksuchpains,thatOlivercouldnevertryenoughtopleasehim.Then,hewouldwalkwithMrs.MaylieandRose,andhearthemtalkofbooks;orperhapssitnearthem,insomeshadyplace,andlistenwhilsttheyoungladyread:whichhecouldhavedone,untilitgrewtoodarktoseetheletters.Then,hehadhisownlessonforthenextdaytoprepare;andatthis,hewouldworkhard,inalittleroomwhichlookedintothegarden,tilleveningcameslowlyon,whentheladieswouldwalkoutagain,andhewiththem:listeningwithsuchpleasuretoalltheysaid:andsohappyiftheywantedaflowerthathecouldclimbtoreach,orhadforgottenanythinghecouldruntofetch:thathecouldneverbequickenoughtaboutit.Whenitbecamequitedark,andtheyreturnedhome,theyoungladywouldsitdowntothepiano,andplaysomepleasantair,orsing,inalowandgentlevoice,someoldsongwhichitpleasedheraunttohear.Therewouldbenocandleslightedatsuchtimesasthese;andOliverwouldsitbyoneofthewindows,listeningtothesweetmusic,inaperfectrapture.

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