Олівер Твіст

Chapter 48

           Attimes,heturned,withdesperatedetermination,resolvedtobeatthisphantomoff,thoughitshouldlookhimdead;butthehairroseonhishead,andhisbloodstoodstill,forithadturnedwithhimandwasbehindhimthen.Hehadkeptitbeforehimthatmorning,butitwasbehindnowalways.Heleanedhisbackagainstabank,andfeltthatitstoodabovehim,visiblyoutagainstthecoldnight-sky.Hethrewhimselfupontheroadonhisbackupontheroad.Athisheaditstood,silent,erect,andstillalivinggrave-stone,withitsepitaphinblood.

           Letnomantalkofmurderersescapingjustice,andhintthatProvidencemustsleep.Thereweretwentyscoreofviolentdeathsinonelongminuteofthatagonyoffear.

           Therewasashedinafieldhepassed,thatofferedshelterforthenight.Beforethedoor,werethreetallpoplartrees,whichmadeitverydarkwithin;andthewindmoanedthroughthemwithadismalwail.HeCOULDNOTwalkon,tilldaylightcameagain;andherehestretchedhimselfclosetothewalltoundergonewtorture.

           Fornow,avisioncamebeforehim,asconstantandmoreterriblethanthatfromwhichhehadescaped.Thosewidelystaringeyes,solustrelessandsoglassy,thathehadbetterbornetoseethemthanthinkuponthem,appearedinthemidstofthedarkness:lightinthemselves,butgivinglighttonothing.Therewerebuttwo,buttheywereeverywhere.

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