was my
first duty to conceal the fault and to repair it, what youthful figure
with tender feet going almost bare on the damp ground, with spare hands
ever working, with its slight shape but half protected from the
sharp weather, would have stood before me to put me to shame? Little
Dorrit's.' So always as he sat alone in the faded chair, thinking.
Always, Little Dorrit. Until it seemed to him as if he met the reward of
having wandered away from her, and suffered anything to pass between him
and his remembrance of her virtues.

His door was opened, and the head of the elder Chivery was put in a very
little way, without being turned towards him.

'I am off the Lock, Mr Clennam, and going out. Can I do anything for
you?'

'Many thanks. Nothing.'

'You'll excuse me opening the door,' said Mr Chivery; 'but I couldn't
make you hear.'

'Did you knock?' 'Half-a-dozen times.'

Rousing himself, Clennam observed that the prison had awakened from its
noontide doze, that the inmates were loitering about the shady yard, and
that it was late in the afternoon. He had been thinking for hours. 'Your
things is come,' said Mr Chivery, 'and my son is going to carry 'em
up. I should have sent 'em up but for his wishing to carry 'em himself.
Indeed he would have 'em himself, and so I couldn't send 'em up. Mr
Clennam, could I say a word to you?'

'Pray come in,' said Arthur; for Mr Chivery's head was still put in at
the door a very little way, and Mr Chivery had but one ear upon him,
instead of both eyes. This was native delicacy in Mr Chivery--true
politeness; though his exterior had very much of a turnkey about it, and
not the least of a gentleman.

'Thank you, sir,' said Mr Chivery, without advancing; 'it's no odds me
coming in. Mr Clennam, don't you take no notice of my son (if you'll
be so good) in case you find him cut up anyways difficult. My son has a
'art, and my son's 'art is in the right place. Me and his mother knows
where to find it, and we find it sitiwated correct.'

With this mysterious speech, Mr Chivery took his ear away and shut the
door. He might have been gone ten minutes, when his son succeeded him.

'Here's your portmanteau,' he said to Arthur, putting it carefully down.

'It's very kind of you. I am ashamed that you should have the trouble.'

He was gone before it came to that; but soon returned, saying exactly as
before, 'Here's your black box:' which he also put down with care.

'I am very sensible of