Arthur Clennam stood in the street, waiting to ask some passer-by what

place that was. He suffered a few people to pass him in whose face there

was no encouragement to make the inquiry, and still stood pausing in the

street, when an old man came up and turned into the courtyard.

He stooped a good deal, and plodded along in a slow pre-occupied manner,

which made the bustling London thoroughfares no very safe resort for

him. He was dirtily and meanly dressed, in a threadbare coat, once blue,

reaching to his ankles and buttoned to his chin, where it vanished in

the pale ghost of a velvet collar. A piece of red cloth with which that

phantom had been stiffened in its lifetime was now laid bare, and poked

itself up, at the back of the old man's neck, into a confusion of grey

hair and rusty stock and buckle which altogether nearly poked his

hat off.

A greasy hat it was, and a napless; impending over his eyes,

cracked and crumpled at the brim, and with a wisp of pocket-handkerchief

dangling out below it. His trousers were so long and loose, and his

shoes so clumsy and large, that he shuffled like an elephant; though how

much of this was gait, and how much trailing cloth and leather, no one

could have told. Under one arm he carried a limp and worn-out case,

containing some wind instrument; in the same hand he had a pennyworth

of snuff in a little packet of whitey-brown paper, from which he slowly

comforted his poor blue old nose with a lengthened-out pinch, as Arthur

Clennam looked at him. To this old man crossing the court-yard, he

preferred his inquiry, touching him on the shoulder. The old man stopped

and looked round, with the expression in his weak grey eyes of one whose

thoughts had been far off, and who was a little dull of hearing also.

'Pray, sir,' said Arthur, repeating his question, 'what is this place?'

'Ay! This place?' returned the old man, staying his pinch of snuff on

its road, and pointing at the place without looking at it. 'This is the

Marshalsea, sir.' 'The debtors' prison?'

'Sir,' said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessary

to insist upon that designation, 'the debtors' prison.' He turned himself about, and went on. 'I beg your pardon,' said Arthur, stopping him once more, 'but will you

allow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?'

'Any one can go IN,' replied the old man; plainly adding by the

significance of his emphasis, 'but it is not every one who can go out.' 'Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?' 'Sir,' returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in his

hand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him.

'I am.' 'I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have a good

object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?'




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