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PinkMonkey.com-Nicholas Nickelby by Charles Dickens




939

the wall--somewhat ostentatiously, as if to call all men to witness
that they were not worth the taking. The dark square lumbering
bedsteads seemed built for restless dreams; the musty hangings
seemed to creep in scanty folds together, whispering among
themselves, when rustled by the wind, their trembling knowledge
of the tempting wares that lurked within the dark and tight-locked
closets.

From out the most spare and hungry room in all this spare and
hungry house there came, one morning, the tremulous tones of old
Gride’s voice, as it feebly chirruped forth the fag end of some
forgotten song, of which the burden ran:

Ta--ran--tan--too,
Throw the old shoe,
And may the wedding be lucky!

which he repeated, in the same shrill quavering notes, again and
again, until a violent fit of coughing obliged him to desist, and to
pursue in silence, the occupation upon which he was engaged.

This occupation was, to take down from the shelves of a worm-
eaten wardrobe a quantity of frowsy garments, one by one; to
subject each to a careful and minute inspection by holding it up
against the light, and after folding it with great exactness, to lay it
on one or other of two little heaps beside him. He never took two
articles of clothing out together, but always brought them forth,
singly, and never failed to shut the wardrobe door, and turn the
key, between each visit to its shelves.

‘The snuff-coloured suit,’ said Arthur Gride, surveying a
threadbare coat. ‘Did I look well in snuff-colour? Let me think.’


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