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Haggard anxiety and remorse are bad panions to be barred up with。
Brooding all day； and resting very little indeed at night； t will not
arm a man against misery。 Next morning； Clennam felt that his health was
sinking； as his spirits had already sunk and that the weight under which
he bent was bearing him down。
Night after night he had risen from his bed of wretchedness at twelve or
one o'clock； and had sat at his window watching the sickly lamps in the
yard； and looking upward for the first wan trace of day； hours before it
was possible that the sky could show it to him。 Now when the night came；
he could not even persuade himself to undress。
For a burning restlessness set in； an agonised impatience of the prison；
and a conviction that he was going to break his heart and die there；
which caused him indescribable suffering。 His dread and hatred of the
place became so intense that he felt it a labour to draw his breath in
it。 The sensation of being stifled sometimes so overpowered him； that
he would stand at the window holding his throat and gasping。 At the
same time a longing for other air； and a yearning to be beyond the blind
blank wall； made him feel as if he must go mad with the ardour of the
desire。
Many other prisoners had had experience of this condition before him；
and its violence and continuity had worn themselves out in their cases；
as they did in his。 Two nights and a day exhausted it。 It came back by
fits； but those grew fainter and returned at lengthening intervals。 A
desolate calm succeeded； and the middle of the week found him settled
down in the despondency of low； slow fever。
With Cavalletto and Pancks away； he had no visitors to fear but Mr and
Mrs Plornish。 His anxiety； in reference to that worthy pair； was that
they should not e near him； for； in the morbid state of his nerves；
he sought to be left alone； and spared the being seen so subdued and
weak。 He wrote a note to Mrs Plornish representing himself as occupied
with his affairs； and bound by the necessity of devoting himself to
them； to remain for a time even without the pleasant interruption of
a sight of her kind face。 As to Young John； who looked in daily at a
certain hour； when the turnkeys were relieved； to ask if he could do
anything for him； he always made a pretence of being engaged in writing；
and to answer cheerfully in the negative。 The subject of their only
long conversation had never been revived between them。 Through all these
changes of unhappiness； however； it had never lost its hold on Clennam's
mind。
The sixth day of the appointed week was a moist； hot； misty day。 It
seemed as though the prison's poverty； and shabbiness； and dirt； were
growing in the sultry atmosphere。 With an aching head and a weary heart；
Clennam had watched the miserable night out； listening to the fall of
rain on the yard pavement； thinking of its softer fall upon the country
earth。 A blurred circle of yellow haze had risen up in the sky in lieu
of sun； and he had watched the patch it put upon his wall； like a bit of
the prison's raggedness。 He had heard the gates open； and the badly shod
feet that waited outside shuffle in； and the sweeping； and pumping；
and moving about； begin； which menced the prison morning。 So ill and
faint that he was obliged to rest many times in the process of getting
himself washed； he had at length crept to his chair by the open window。
In it he sat dozing； while the old woman who arranged his room went
through her morning's work。
Light of head with want of sleep and want of food （his appetite； and
even his sense of taste； having forsaken him）； he had been two or three
times conscious； in the night； of going astray。 He had heard fragments
of tunes and songs in the warm wind； which he knew had no existence。
Now that he began to doze in exhaustion； he heard them again； and voices
seemed to address him； and he answered； and started。
Dozing and dreaming； without the power of reckoning time； so that
a minute might have been an hour and an hour a minute； some abiding
impression of a garden stole over him……a garden of flowers； with a
damp warm wind gently stirring their scents。 It required such a painful
effort to lift his head for the purpose of inquiring into this； or
inquiring into anything； that the impression appeared to have bee
quite an old and importunate one when he looked round。 Beside the
tea…cup on his table he saw； then； a blooming nosegay： a wonderful
handful of the choicest and most lovely flowers。
Nothing had ever appeared so beautiful in his sight。 He took them up and
inhaled their fragrance； and he lifted them to his hot head； and he put
them down and opened his parched hands to them； as cold hands are opened
to receive the cheering of a fire。 It was not until he had delighted in
them for some time； that he wondered who had sent them； and opened his
door to ask the woman who must have put them there； how they had e
into her hands。 But she was gone； and seemed to have been long gone； for
the tea she had left for him on the table was cold。 He tried to drink
some； but could not bear the odour of it： so he crept back to his chair
by the open window； and put the flowers on the little round table of
old。
When the first faintness consequent on having moved about had left him；
he subsided into his former state。 One of the night…tunes was playing
in the wind； when the door of his room seemed to open to a light touch；
and； after a moment's pause； a quiet figure seemed to stand there； with
a black mantle on it。 It seemed to draw the mantle off and drop it on
the ground； and then it seemed to be his Little Dorrit in her old； worn
dress。 It seemed to tremble； and to clasp its hands； and to smile； and
to burst into tears。
He roused himself； and cried out。 And then he saw； in the loving；
pitying； sorrowing； dear face； as in a mirror； how changed he was； and
she came towards him； and with her hands laid on his breast to keep him
in his chair； and with her knees upon the floor at his feet； and with
her lips raised up to kiss him； and with her tears dropping on him as
the rain from Heaven had dropped upon the flowers； Little Dorrit；