Олівер Твіст

Chapter 11

           Inourstation-houses,menandwomenareeverynightconfinedonthemosttrivialchargesthewordisworthnotingindungeons,comparedwithwhich,thoseinNewgate,occupiedbythemostatrociousfelons,tried,foundguilty,andundersentenceofdeath,arepalaces.Letanyonewhodoubtsthis,comparethetwo.

           TheoldgentlemanlookedalmostasruefulasOliverwhenthekeygratedinthelock.Heturnedwithasightothebook,whichhadbeentheinnocentcauseofallthisdisturbance.

           ‘Thereissomethinginthatboy’sface,’saidtheoldgentlemantohimselfashewalkedslowlyaway,tappinghischinwiththecoverofthebook,inathoughtfulmanner;‘somethingthattouchesandinterestsme.CANhebeinnocent?HelookedlikeByethebye,’exclaimedtheoldgentleman,haltingveryabruptly,andstaringupintothesky,‘Blessmysoul!wherehaveIseensomethinglikethatlookbefore?’

           Aftermusingforsomeminutes,theoldgentlemanwalked,withthesamemeditativeface,intoabackanteroomopeningfromtheyard;andthere,retiringintoacorner,calledupbeforehismind’seyeavastamphitheatreoffacesoverwhichaduskycurtainhadhungformanyyears.‘No,’saidtheoldgentleman,shakinghishead;‘itmustbeimagination.

           Hewanderedoverthemagain.Hehadcalledthemintoview,anditwasnoteasytoreplacetheshroudthathadsolongconcealedthem.

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