Тяжёлые времена

Stephen Blackpool

           Therewasnotaflutterofhercoarseshawl,perhaps,buthaditsinterestinthisman’seyes;notatoneofhervoicebuthaditsechoinhisinnermostheart.

           Whenshewaslosttohisview,hepursuedhishomewardway,glancingupsometimesatthesky,wherethecloudsweresailingfastandwildly.But,theywerebrokennow,andtherainhadceased,andthemoonshone,lookingdownthehighchimneysofCoketownonthedeepfurnacesbelow,andcastingTitanicshadowsofthesteam-enginesatrest,uponthewallswheretheywerelodged.Themanseemedtohavebrightenedwiththenight,ashewenton.

           Hishome,insuchanotherstreetasthefirst,savingthatitwasnarrower,wasoveralittleshop.Howitcametopassthatanypeoplefounditworththeirwhiletosellorbuythewretchedlittletoys,mixedupinitswindowwithcheapnewspapersandpork(therewasalegtoberaffledforto-morrow-night),mattersnothere.Hetookhisendofcandlefromashelf,lighteditatanotherendofcandleonthecounter,withoutdisturbingthemistressoftheshopwhowasasleepinherlittleroom,andwentupstairsintohislodging.

           Itwasaroom,notunacquaintedwiththeblackladderundervarioustenants;butasneat,atpresent,assucharoomcouldbe.Afewbooksandwritingswereonanoldbureauinacorner,thefurniturewasdecentandsufficient,and,thoughtheatmospherewastainted,theroomwasclean.

           Goingtothehearthtosetthecandledownuponaroundthree-leggedtablestandingthere,hestumbledagainstsomething.

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