Chapter 12

           Thecoachrattledaway,overnearlythesamegroundasthatwhichOliverhadtraversedwhenhefirstenteredLondonincompanywiththeDodger;and,turningadifferentwaywhenitreachedtheAngelatIslington,stoppedatlengthbeforeaneathouse,inaquietshadystreetnearPentonville.Here,abedwasprepared,withoutlossoftime,inwhichMr.Brownlowsawhisyoungchargecarefullyandcomfortablydeposited;andhere,hewastendedwithakindnessandsolicitudethatknewnobounds.

           But,formanydays,Oliverremainedinsensibletoallthegoodnessofhisnewfriends.Thesunroseandsank,androseandsankagain,andmanytimesafterthat;andstilltheboylaystretchedonhisuneasybed,dwindlingawaybeneaththedryandwastingheatoffever.Thewormdoesnotworkmoresurelyonthedeadbody,thandoesthisslowcreepingfireuponthelivingframe.

           Weak,andthin,andpallid,heawokeatlastfromwhatseemedtohavebeenalongandtroubleddream.Feeblyraisinghimselfinthebed,withhisheadrestingonhistremblingarm,helookedanxiouslyaround.

           ‘Whatroomisthis?WherehaveIbeenbroughtto?’saidOliver.‘ThisisnottheplaceIwenttosleepin.

           Heutteredthesewordsinafeeblevoice,beingveryfaintandweak;buttheywereoverheardatonce.Thecurtainatthebed’sheadwashastilydrawnback,andamotherlyoldlady,veryneatlyandpreciselydressed,roseassheundrewit,fromanarm-chaircloseby,inwhichshehadbeensittingatneedle-work.

           ‘Hush,mydear,’saidtheoldladysoftly.

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