Page 216 - bleak-house

will be an inquest, and you will be asked the question. You
can read?’
‘No, I can’t,’ returns the old man with a sudden grin.
‘Snagsby,’ says Mr. Tulkinghorn, ‘look over the room for
him. He will get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise.
Being here, I’ll wait if you make haste, and then I can tes-
tify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that all was
fair and right. If you will hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby,
my friend, he’ll soon see whether there is anything to help
you.’
‘In the first place, here’s an old portmanteau, sir,’ says
Snagsby.
Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not ap-
pear to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to
it, and though there is very little else, heaven knows.
The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-
stationer conducts the search. The surgeon leans against the
corner of the chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles
just within the door. The apt old scholar of the old school,
with his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees,
his large black waistcoat, his longsleeved black coat, and his
wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in the bow the peerage
knows so well, stands in exactly the same place and atti-
tude.
There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old
portmanteau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers’ duplicates,
those turnpike tickets on the road of poverty; there is a
crumpled paper, smelling of opium, on which are scrawled
rough memoranda—as, took, such a day, so many grains;

216 Bleak House