‘It is but a few hours, sir,’ Clennam cheerfully urged upon him.
‘A few hours, sir,’ he returned in a sudden passion. ‘You talk very easily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a man who is choking for want of air?’
It was his last demonstration for that time; as, after shedding some more tears and querulously complaining that he couldn’t breathe, he slowly fell into a slumber. Clennam had abundant occupation for his thoughts, as he sat in the quiet room watching the father on his bed, and the daughter fanning his face.
Little Dorrit had been thinking too. After softly putting his grey hair aside, and touching his forehead with her lips, she looked towards Arthur, who came nearer to her, and pursued in a low whisper the subject of her thoughts.
‘Mr Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves here?’
‘No doubt. All.’
‘All the debts for which he had been imprisoned here, all my life and longer?’
‘No doubt.’
There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look; something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, and said:
‘You are glad that he should do so?’