Холодный дом

The Law-Writer

           Intherustyskeletonofagrate,pinchedatthemiddleasifpovertyhadgrippedit,aredcokefireburnslow.Inthecornerbythechimneystandadealtableandabrokendesk,awildernessmarkedwitharainofink.Inanothercorneraraggedoldportmanteauononeofthetwochairsservesforcabinetorwardrobe;nolargeroneisneeded,foritcollapseslikethecheeksofastarvedman.Thefloorisbare,exceptthatoneoldmat,troddentoshredsofrope-yarn,liesperishinguponthehearth.Nocurtainveilsthedarknessofthenight,butthediscolouredshuttersaredrawntogether,andthroughthetwogauntholespiercedinthem,faminemightbestaringinthebansheeofthemanuponthebed.For,onalowbedoppositethefire,aconfusionofdirtypatchwork,lean-ribbedticking,andcoarsesacking,thelawyer,hesitatingjustwithinthedoorway,seesaman.Heliesthere,dressedinshirtandtrousers,withbarefeet.Hehasayellowlookinthespectraldarknessofacandlethathasguttereddownuntilthewholelengthofitswick(stillburning)hasdoubledoverandleftatowerofwinding-sheetaboveit.Hishairisragged,minglingwithhiswhiskersandhisbeardthelatter,raggedtoo,andgrown,likethescumandmistaroundhim,inneglect.Foulandfilthyastheroomis,foulandfilthyastheairis,itisnoteasytoperceivewhatfumesthosearewhichmostoppressthesensesinit;butthroughthegeneralsicklinessandfaintness,andtheodourofstaletobacco,therecomesintothelawyer’smouththebitter,vapidtasteofopium

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Roboto Lora
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