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Stop! cried the man. Lets have a look at you! This caused her to turn back again in the act of going out, and to present herself and her charge before him. I thought so! said he. I know you. We have often seen each other, said Little Dorrit, recognising the sexton, or the beadle, or the verger, or whatever he was, when I have been at church here. More than that, weve got your birth in our Register, you know; youre one of our curiosities. Indeed! said Little Dorrit. To be sure. As the child of theby-the-bye, how did you get out so early? We were shut out last night, and are waiting to get in. You dont mean it? And theres another hour good yet! Come into the vestry. Youll find a fire in the vestry, on account of the painters. Im waiting for the painters, or I shouldnt be here, you may depend upon it. One of our curiosities mustnt be cold when we have it in our power to warm her up comfortable. Come along. He was a very good old fellow, in his familiar way; and having stirred the vestry fire, he looked round the shelves of registers for a particular volume. Here you are, you see, he said, taking it down and turning the leaves. Here youll find yourself, as large as life. Amy, daughter of William and Fanny Dorrit. Born, Marshalsea Prison, Parish of St George. And we tell people that you have lived there, without so much as a days or a nights absence, ever since. Is it true? Quite true, till last night. Lord! But his surveying her with an admiring gaze suggested Something else to him, to wit: I am sorry to see, though, that you are faint and tired. Stay a bit. Ill get some cushions out of the church, and you and your friend shall lie down before the fire. Dont be afraid of not going in to join your father when the gate opens. Ill call you. He soon brought in the cushions, and strewed them on the ground. There you are, you see. Again as large as life. Oh, never mind thanking. Ive daughters of my own. And though they werent born in the Marshalsea Prison, they might have been, if I had been, in my ways of carrying on, of your fathers breed. Stop a bit. I must put something under the cushion for your head. Heres a burial volume. just the thing! We have got Mrs Bangham in this book. But what makes these books interesting to most people is not whos in em, but who isntwhos coming, you know, and when. Thats the interesting question. Commendingly looking back at the pillow he had improvised, he left them to their hours repose. Maggy was snoring already, and Little Dorrit was soon fast asleep with her head resting on that sealed book of Fate, untroubled by its mysterious blank leaves. This was Little Dorrits party. The shame, desertion, wretchedness, and exposure of the great capital; the wet, the cold, the slow hours, and the swift clouds of the dismal night. This was the party from which Little Dorrit went home, jaded, in the first grey mist of a rainy morning. |
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