Bleak House. Чарльз Диккенс

perhaps both.

      “Neckett's children?” said she in reply to my inquiry. “Yes, Surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the stairs.” And she handed me the key across the counter.

      I glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it for granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended for the children's door, I came out without asking any more questions and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietly as we could, but four of us made some noise on the aged boards, and when we came to the second story we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there looking out of his room.

      “Is it Gridley that's wanted?” he said, fixing his eyes on me with an angry stare.

      “No, sir,” said I; “I am going higher up.”

      He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. Skimpole, fixing the same angry stare on each in succession as they passed and followed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day. “Good day!” he said abruptly and fiercely. He was a tall, sallow man with a careworn head on which but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, and prominent eyes. He had a combative look and a chafing, irritable manner which, associated with his figure – still large and powerful, though evidently in its decline – rather alarmed me. He had a pen in his hand, and in the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, I saw that it was covered with a litter of papers.