I Begin Life on My Own Account, and Don’t Like it

           Iknowenoughoftheworldnow,tohavealmostlostthecapacityofbeingmuchsurprisedbyanything;butitismatterofsomesurprisetome,evennow,thatIcanhavebeensoeasilythrownawayatsuchanage.Achildofexcellentabilities,andwithstrongpowersofobservation,quick,eager,delicate,andsoonhurtbodilyormentally,itseemswonderfultomethatnobodyshouldhavemadeanysigninmybehalf.Butnonewasmade;andIbecame,attenyearsold,alittlelabouringhindintheserviceofMurdstoneandGrinby.

           MurdstoneandGrinby’swarehousewasatthewaterside.ItwasdowninBlackfriars.Modernimprovementshavealteredtheplace;butitwasthelasthouseatthebottomofanarrowstreet,curvingdownhilltotheriver,withsomestairsattheend,wherepeopletookboat.Itwasacrazyoldhousewithawharfofitsown,abuttingonthewaterwhenthetidewasin,andonthemudwhenthetidewasout,andliterallyoverrunwithrats.Itspanelledrooms,discolouredwiththedirtandsmokeofahundredyears,Idaresay;itsdecayingfloorsandstaircase;thesqueakingandscufflingoftheoldgreyratsdowninthecellars;andthedirtandrottennessoftheplace;arethings,notofmanyyearsago,inmymind,butofthepresentinstant.Theyareallbeforeme,justastheywereintheevilhourwhenIwentamongthemforthefirsttime,withmytremblinghandinMr.Quinion’s.

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