dvertence.

Here it must be said, that according to the custom of most legal
gentlemen occupying chambers in densely-populated law buildings, there
were several keys to my door. One was kept by a woman residing in the
attic, which person weekly scrubbed and daily swept and dusted my
apartments. Another was kept by Turkey for convenience sake. The third
I sometimes carried in my own pocket. The fourth I knew not who had.

Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a
celebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground, I
thought I would walk around to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had
my key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by
something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when
to my consternation a key was turned from within; and thrusting his lean
visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the apparition of Bartleby
appeared, in his shirt sleeves, and otherwise in a strangely tattered
dishabille, saying quietly that he was sorry, but he was deeply engaged
just then, and--preferred not admitting me at present. In a brief word
or two, he moreover added, that perhaps I had better walk round the
block two or three times, and by that time he would probably have
concluded his affairs.

Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my
law-chambers of a Sunday morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly
_nonchalance_, yet withal firm and self-possessed, had such a strange
effect upon me, that incontinently I slunk away from my own door, and
did as desired. But not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion
against the mild effrontery of this unaccountable scrivener. Indeed, it
was his wonderful mildness chiefly, which not only disarmed me, but
unmanned me, as it were. For I consider that one, for the time, is a
sort of unmanned when he tranquilly permits his hired clerk to dictate
to him, and order him away from his own premises. Furthermore, I was
full of uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in my
office in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition of
a Sunday morning. Was any thing amiss going on? Nay, that was out of
the question. It was not to be thought of for a moment that Bartleby
was an immoral person. But what could he be doing there?--copying? Nay
again, whatever might be his eccentricities, Bartleby was an eminently
decorous person. He would be the last m