Оливер Твист

Chapter 48

           Attimes,heturned,withdesperatedetermination,resolvedtobeatthisphantomoff,thoughitshouldlookhimdead;butthehairroseonhishead,andhisbloodstoodstill,forithadturnedwithhimandwasbehindhimthen.Hehadkeptitbeforehimthatmorning,butitwasbehindnow—always.Heleanedhisbackagainstabank,andfeltthatitstoodabovehim,visiblyoutagainstthecoldnight-sky.Hethrewhimselfupontheroad—onhisbackupontheroad.Athisheaditstood,silent,erect,andstill—alivinggrave-stone,withitsepitaphinblood.

           Letnomantalkofmurderersescapingjustice,andhintthatProvidencemustsleep.Thereweretwentyscoreofviolentdeathsinonelongminuteofthatagonyoffear.

           Therewasashedinafieldhepassed,thatofferedshelterforthenight.Beforethedoor,werethreetallpoplartrees,whichmadeitverydarkwithin;andthewindmoanedthroughthemwithadismalwail.HeCOULDNOTwalkon,tilldaylightcameagain;andherehestretchedhimselfclosetothewall—toundergonewtorture.

           Fornow,avisioncamebeforehim,asconstantandmoreterriblethanthatfromwhichhehadescaped.Thosewidelystaringeyes,solustrelessandsoglassy,thathehadbetterbornetoseethemthanthinkuponthem,appearedinthemidstofthedarkness:lightinthemselves,butgivinglighttonothing.Therewerebuttwo,buttheywereeverywhere.

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