Холодний дім

The Law-Writer

           Withtheroundtopofaninkstandandtwobrokenbitsofsealing-waxheissilentlyandslowlyworkingoutwhatevertrainofindecisionisinhismind.Nowtheinkstandtopisinthemiddle,nowtheredbitofsealing-wax,nowtheblackbit.That’snotit.Mr.Tulkinghornmustgatherthemallupandbeginagain.Here,beneaththepaintedceiling,withforeshortenedAllegorystaringdownathisintrusionasifitmeanttoswoopuponhim,andhecuttingitdead,Mr.Tulkinghornhasatoncehishouseandoffice.Hekeepsnostaff,onlyonemiddle-agedman,usuallyalittleoutatelbows,whositsinahighpewinthehallandisrarelyoverburdenedwithbusiness.Mr.Tulkinghornisnotinacommonway.Hewantsnoclerks.Heisagreatreservoirofconfidences,nottobesotapped.HisclientswantHIM;heisallinall.Draftsthatherequirestobedrawnaredrawnbyspecial-pleadersinthetempleonmysteriousinstructions;faircopiesthatherequirestobemadearemadeatthestationers’,expensebeingnoconsideration.Themiddle-agedmaninthepewknowsscarcelymoreoftheaffairsofthepeeragethananycrossing-sweeperinHolborn.Theredbit,theblackbit,theinkstandtop,theotherinkstandtop,thelittlesand-box.So!Youtothemiddle,youtotheright,youtotheleft.Thistrainofindecisionmustsurelybeworkedoutnowornever.Now!Mr.Tulkinghorngetsup,adjustshisspectacles,putsonhishat,putsthemanuscriptinhispocket,goesout,tellsthemiddle-agedmanoutatelbows,"Ishallbebackpresently."Veryrarelytellshimanythingmoreexplicit.Mr.

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Roboto Lora
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