Олівер Твіст

Chapter 48

           ‘Damnthat‘erebag,’saidtheguard;‘areyougonetosleepinthere?’

           ‘Coming!’criedtheofficekeeper,runningout.

           ‘Coming,’growledtheguard.‘Ah,andso’stheyoung‘oomanofpropertythat’sgoingtotakeafancytome,butIdon’tknowwhen.Here,givehold.Allriight!’

           Thehornsoundedafewcheerfulnotes,andthecoachwasgone.

           Sikesremainedstandinginthestreet,apparentlyunmovedbywhathehadjustheard,andagitatedbynostrongerfeelingthanadoubtwheretogo.Atlengthhewentbackagain,andtooktheroadwhichleadsfromHatfieldtoSt.Albans.

           Hewentondoggedly;butasheleftthetownbehindhim,andplungedintothesolitudeanddarknessoftheroad,hefeltadreadandawecreepinguponhimwhichshookhimtothecore.Everyobjectbeforehim,substanceorshadow,stillormoving,tookthesemblanceofsomefearfulthing;butthesefearswerenothingcomparedtothesensethathauntedhimofthatmorning’sghastlyfigurefollowingathisheels.Hecouldtraceitsshadowinthegloom,supplythesmallestitemoftheoutline,andnotehowstiffandsolemnitseemedtostalkalong.Hecouldhearitsgarmentsrustlingintheleaves,andeverybreathofwindcameladenwiththatlastlowcry.Ifhestoppeditdidthesame.Ifheran,itfollowednotrunningtoo:thatwouldhavebeenarelief:butlikeacorpseendowedwiththemeremachineryoflife,andborneononeslowmelancholywindthatneverroseorfell.

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