It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled
in this place which was never light, by way of compliment to the
evening, which had set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of
the tenants of the numerous little rooms which opened into the
gallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick
peeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity and
interest. Here, four or five great hulking fellows, just visible
through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged in noisy and
riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or playing
at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining
room, some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of a
feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers,
yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for the
hundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for
the perusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach,
or whose heart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his
wife and a whole crowd of children, might be seen making up a
scanty bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger
ones to pass the night in.
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