Oliver Twist
IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.
The coach away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had when he entered London in company with the Dodger; and, a different way when it the Angel at Islington, stopped at length a house, in a near Pentonville. Here, a was prepared, without of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his and deposited; and here, he was with a and that no bounds.
But, for many days, Oliver to all the of his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and again, and many times after that; and still the boy on his bed, away the and of fever. The not work more surely on the body, than this slow fire upon the frame.
Weak, and thin, and pallid, he at last from what to have been a long and dream. Feebly himself in the bed, with his on his arm, he looked around.
“What room is this? Where have I been to?” said Oliver. “This is not the place I to sleep in.”
He these in a voice, being very and weak; but they were at once. The at the bed’s was back, and a old lady, very and dressed, rose as she it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been at needle-work.
“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet, or you will be again; and you have been very bad,—as as be, nigh. Lie again; there’s a dear!” With those words, the old lady very Oliver’s upon the pillow; and, his from his forehead, looked so and in his face, that he not help his little hand in hers, and it his neck.
“Save us!” said the old lady, with in her eyes. “What a little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother if she had sat by him as I have, and see him now!”
“Perhaps she see me,” Oliver, his hands together; “perhaps she has sat by me. I almost as if she had.”
“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.
“I it was,” Oliver, “because is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come to the of a boy. But if she I was ill, she must have me, there; for she was very herself she died. She can’t know anything about me though,” added Oliver after a moment’s silence. “If she had me hurt, it would have her sorrowful; and her has always looked sweet and happy, when I have of her.”
The old lady no reply to this; but her first, and her spectacles, which on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, some for Oliver to drink; and then, him on the cheek, told him he must very quiet, or he would be again.
So, Oliver very still; he was to the old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, he was with what he had already said. He soon into a doze, from which he was by the light of a candle: which, being near the bed, him a with a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who his pulse, and said he was a great better.
“You are a great better, are you not, my dear?” said the gentleman.
“Yes, thank you, sir,” Oliver.
“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman: “You’re too, an’t you?”
“No, sir,” answered Oliver.
“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the gentleman: looking very wise.
The old lady a of the head, which to say that she the doctor was a very man. The doctor appeared much of the same opinion himself.
“You sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.
“No, sir,” Oliver.
“No,” said the doctor, with a very and satisfied look. “You’re not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?”
“Yes, sir, thirsty,” answered Oliver.
“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very natural that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and some toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but be that you don’t let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?”
The old lady a curtsey. The doctor, after the stuff, and a of it, away: his in a very and manner as he downstairs.
Oliver off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly twelve o’clock. The old lady him good-night afterwards, and left him in of a old woman who had just come: with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large nightcap. Putting the on her and the on the table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to up with him, her chair close to the fire and off into a series of naps, at with forward, and and chokings. These, however, had no than her to her nose very hard, and then asleep again.
And thus the night slowly on. Oliver for some time, the little circles of light which the of the rushlight-shade upon the ceiling; or with his the pattern of the paper on the wall. The and the of the room were very solemn; as they into the boy’s mind the that death had been there, for many days and nights, and might yet it with the and of his presence, he his upon the pillow, and prayed to Heaven.
Gradually, he into that sleep which from alone imparts; that and peaceful which it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be again to all the and of life; to all its for the present; its for the future; more than all, its of the past!
It had been day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he and happy. The of the was safely past. He to the world again.
In three days’ time he was able to in an easy-chair, well up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him into the little housekeeper’s room, which to her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old lady sat herself too; and, being in a of at him so much better, to most violently.
“Never mind me, my dear,” said the old lady; “I’m only having a regular good cry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m comfortable.”
“You’re very, very to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.
“Well, you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must up our best looks, the we look, the more he’ll be pleased.” And with this, the old lady herself to up, in a little saucepan, a full of broth: enough, Oliver thought, to an dinner, when to the strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the computation.
“Are you of pictures, dear?” the old lady, that Oliver had his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which against the wall; just opposite his chair.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his from the canvas; “I have so that I know. What a beautiful, mild that lady’s is!”
“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out than they are, or they wouldn’t any custom, child. The man that the machine for taking might have that would succeed; it’s a too honest. A deal,” said the old lady, laughing very at her own acuteness.
“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.
“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; “that’s a portrait.”
“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.
“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a good-humoured manner. “It’s not a of that you or I know, I expect. It to your fancy, dear.”
“It is so pretty,” Oliver.
“Why, sure you’re not of it?” said the old lady: in great surprise, the look of with which the child the painting.
“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the look so sorrowful; and where I sit, they upon me. It makes my beat,” added Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn’t.”
“Lord save us!” the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that way, child. You’re weak and after your illness. Let me wheel your chair to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!” said the old lady, the action to the word; “you don’t see it now, at all events.”
Oliver did see it in his mind’s as as if he had not his position; but he it not to worry the old lady; so he when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he more comfortable, and of into the broth, with all the so a preparation. Oliver got through it with expedition. He had the last spoonful, when there came a soft at the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.
Now, the old came in as as need be; but, he had no sooner his on his forehead, and his hands the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his a very great of odd contortions. Oliver looked very and from sickness, and an attempt to up, out of respect to his benefactor, which in his into the chair again; and the is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being large for any six ordinary old of disposition, a supply of into his eyes, by some which we are not to be in a condition to explain.
“Poor boy, boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, his throat. “I’m this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m I have cold.”
“I not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir.”
“I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I think I had a at dinner-time yesterday; but mind that. How do you feel, my dear?”
“Very happy, sir,” Oliver. “And very indeed, sir, for your to me.”
“Good by,” said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. “Have you him any nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?”
“He has just had a of broth, sir,” Mrs. Bedwin: herself up slightly, and on the last word: to that slops, and will compounded, there no or whatsoever.
“Ugh!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a shudder; “a of of port would have done him a great more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom White, eh?”
“My name is Oliver, sir,” the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment.
“Oliver,” said Mr. Brownlow; “Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?”
“No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.”
“Queer name!” said the old gentleman. “What you tell the your name was White?”
“I told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement.
This so like a falsehood, that the old looked in Oliver’s face. It was to him; there was truth in every one of its thin and lineaments.
“Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his for looking at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the his and some familiar came upon him so strongly, that he not his gaze.
“I you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, his beseechingly.
“No, no,” the old gentleman. “Why! what’s this? Bedwin, look there!”
As he spoke, he pointed to the picture over Oliver’s head, and then to the boy’s face. There was its copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every was the same. The was, for the instant, so alike, that the line with accuracy!
Oliver not the of this exclamation; for, not being to the start it gave him, he away. A on his part, which the an opportunity of the reader from suspense, in of the two of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording—
That when the Dodger, and his friend Master Bates, joined in the hue-and-cry which was at Oliver’s heels, in of their an illegal of Mr. Brownlow’s personal property, as has been already described, they were by a very and for themselves; and as the of the and the of the are among the and of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need the reader to observe, that this action should to them in the opinion of all public and men, in almost as great a as this proof of their for their own and safety goes to and the little of laws which and sound-judging have as the main-springs of all Nature’s and actions: the said very the good lady’s to of and theory: and, by a very and to her and understanding, out of any of heart, or and feeling. For, these are totally a female who is by to be above the little and of her sex.
If I wanted any proof of the nature of the of these in their very predicament, I should at once it in the (also recorded in a part of this narrative), of their the pursuit, when the attention was upon Oliver; and making for their home by the possible cut. Although I do not to that it is the of and learned sages, to the road to any great (their being to the distance, by and staggerings, like those in which men under the pressure of a too of ideas, are to indulge); still, I do to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the of many philosophers, in out their theories, to great and in providing against every possible which can be at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or the the two, being left to the concerned, to be settled and by his clear, comprehensive, and view of his own particular case.
It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a most of narrow and courts, that they to a low and dark archway. Having here, just long to to speak, Master Bates an of and delight; and, into an fit of laughter, himself upon a doorstep, and rolled in a transport of mirth.
“What’s the matter?” the Dodger.
“Ha! ha! ha!” Charley Bates.
“Hold your noise,” the Dodger, looking round. “Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?”
“I can’t help it,” said Charley, “I can’t help it! To see him away at that pace, and the corners, and up again’ the posts, and starting on again as if he was of iron as well as them, and me with the in my pocket, out him—oh, my eye!” The of Master Bates presented the him in too colours. As he at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than before.
“What’ll Fagin say?” the Dodger; taking of the next of on the part of his friend to the question.
“What?” Charley Bates.
“Ah, what?” said the Dodger.
“Why, what should he say?” Charley: stopping in his merriment; for the Dodger’s manner was impressive. “What should he say?”
Mr. Dawkins for a of minutes; then, taking off his hat, his head, and thrice.
“What do you mean?” said Charley.
“Toor loo, and spinnage, the he wouldn’t, and high cockolorum,” said the Dodger: with a on his countenance.
This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates it so; and again said, “What do you mean?”
The Dodger no reply; but his on again, and the skirts of his long-tailed under his arm, his into his cheek, the of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but manner, and on his heel, the court. Master Bates followed, with a countenance.
The noise of on the stairs, a minutes after the of this conversation, the old as he sat over the fire with a and a small in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pot on the trivet. There was a on his white as he round, and looking out from under his thick red eyebrows, his ear the door, and listened.
“Why, how’s this?” the Jew: countenance; “only two of ’em? Where’s the third? They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!”
The approached nearer; they the landing. The door was slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, it them.
