s.

'Where I little thought, Heaven forgive me,' said Clennam to himself,
'that I should ever enter thus!'

Mr Chivery was on the Lock, and Young John was in the Lodge: either
newly released from it, or waiting to take his own spell of duty. Both
were more astonished on seeing who the prisoner was, than one might have
thought turnkeys would have been. The elder Mr Chivery shook hands with
him in a shame-faced kind of way, and said, 'I don't call to mind,
sir, as I was ever less glad to see you.' The younger Mr Chivery, more
distant, did not shake hands with him at all; he stood looking at him
in a state of indecision so observable that it even came within the
observation of Clennam with his heavy eyes and heavy heart. Presently
afterwards, Young John disappeared into the jail.

As Clennam knew enough of the place to know that he was required to
remain in the Lodge a certain time, he took a seat in a corner, and
feigned to be occupied with the perusal of letters from his pocket.

They did not so engross his attention, but that he saw, with gratitude,
how the elder Mr Chivery kept the Lodge clear of prisoners; how he
signed to some, with his keys, not to come in, how he nudged others with
his elbows to go out, and how he made his misery as easy to him as he
could.

Arthur was sitting with his eyes fixed on the floor, recalling the past,
brooding over the present, and not attending to either, when he felt
himself touched upon the shoulder. It was by Young John; and he said,
'You can come now.'

He got up and followed Young John. When they had gone a step or two
within the inner iron-gate, Young John turned and said to him:

'You want a room. I have got you one.'

'I thank you heartily.'

Young John turned again, and took him in at the old doorway, up the old
staircase, into the old room. Arthur stretched out his hand. Young John
looked at it, looked at him--sternly--swelled, choked, and said:

'I don't know as I can. No, I find I can't. But I thought you'd like the
room, and here it is for you.'

Surprise at this inconsistent behaviour yielded when he was gone (he
went away directly) to the feelings which the empty room awakened in
Clennam's wounded breast, and to the crowding associations with the
one good and gentle creature who had sanctified it. Her absence in his
altered fortunes made it, and him in it, so very desolate and so much in
need of such a face of love and truth, that he turned against the
wall