Холодный дом

Down in Lincolnshire

           Thendoesshetwirlandtwine,apastoralnymphofgoodfamily,throughthemazesofthedance.Thendotheswainsappearwithtea,withlemonade,withsandwiches,withhomage.Thenisshekindandcruel,statelyandunassuming,various,beautifullywilful.Thenisthereasingularkindofparallelbetweenherandthelittleglasschandeliersofanotherageembellishingthatassembly-room,which,withtheirmeagrestems,theirsparelittledrops,theirdisappointingknobswherenodropsare,theirbarelittlestalksfromwhichknobsanddropshavebothdeparted,andtheirlittlefeebleprismatictwinkling,allseemVolumnias.Fortherest,LincolnshirelifetoVolumniaisavastblankofovergrownhouselookingoutupontrees,sighing,wringingtheirhands,bowingtheirheads,andcastingtheirtearsuponthewindow-panesinmonotonousdepressions.Alabyrinthofgrandeur,lessthepropertyofanoldfamilyofhumanbeingsandtheirghostlylikenessesthanofanoldfamilyofechoingsandthunderingswhichstartoutoftheirhundredgravesateverysoundandgoresoundingthroughthebuilding.Awasteofunusedpassagesandstaircasesinwhichtodropacombuponabedroomflooratnightistosendastealthyfootfallonanerrandthroughthehouse.Aplacewherefewpeoplecaretogoaboutalone,whereamaidscreamsifanashdropsfromthefire,takestocryingatalltimesandseasons,becomesthevictimofalowdisorderofthespirits,andgiveswarninganddeparts.ThusChesneyWold

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