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- Чарльз Диккенс
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‘
What
with
my
rheumatic
affection
,
and
what
with
its
attendant
debility
or
nervous
weakness
—
names
are
of
no
matter
now
—
I
have
lost
the
use
of
my
limbs
.
I
never
leave
my
room
.
I
have
not
been
outside
this
door
for
—
tell
him
for
how
long
,
’
she
said
,
speaking
over
her
shoulder
.
‘
A
dozen
year
next
Christmas
,
’
returned
a
cracked
voice
out
of
the
dimness
behind
.
‘
Is
that
Affery
?
’
said
Arthur
,
looking
towards
it
.
The
cracked
voice
replied
that
it
was
Affery
:
and
an
old
woman
came
forward
into
what
doubtful
light
there
was
,
and
kissed
her
hand
once
;
then
subsided
again
into
the
dimness
.
‘
I
am
able
,
’
said
Mrs
Clennam
,
with
a
slight
motion
of
her
worsted
-
muffled
right
hand
toward
a
chair
on
wheels
,
standing
before
a
tall
writing
cabinet
close
shut
up
,
‘
I
am
able
to
attend
to
my
business
duties
,
and
I
am
thankful
for
the
privilege
.
It
is
a
great
privilege
.
But
no
more
of
business
on
this
day
.
It
is
a
bad
night
,
is
it
not
?
’
‘
Yes
,
mother
.
’
‘
Does
it
snow
?
’
‘
Snow
,
mother
?
And
we
only
yet
in
September
?
’
‘
All
seasons
are
alike
to
me
,
’
she
returned
,
with
a
grim
kind
of
luxuriousness
.
‘
I
know
nothing
of
summer
and
winter
,
shut
up
here
.
The
Lord
has
been
pleased
to
put
me
beyond
all
that
.
’
With
her
cold
grey
eyes
and
her
cold
grey
hair
,
and
her
immovable
face
,
as
stiff
as
the
folds
of
her
stony
head
-
dress
,
—
her
being
beyond
the
reach
of
the
seasons
seemed
but
a
fit
sequence
to
her
being
beyond
the
reach
of
all
changing
emotions
.
On
her
little
table
lay
two
or
three
books
,
her
handkerchief
,
a
pair
of
steel
spectacles
newly
taken
off
,
and
an
old
-
fashioned
gold
watch
in
a
heavy
double
case
.
Upon
this
last
object
her
son
’
s
eyes
and
her
own
now
rested
together
.
