gathered about her son, that he felt conscious of a renewal of the
timid chill and reserve of his childhood.

'Do you never leave your room, mother?'

'What with my rheumatic affection, and what with its attendant
debility or nervous weakness--names are of no matter now--I have
lost the use of my limbs. I never leave my room. I have not been
outside this door for--tell him for how long,' she said, speaking
over her shoulder.

'A dozen year next Christmas,' returned a cracked voice out of the
dimness behind.

'Is that Affery?' said Arthur, looking towards it.

The cracked voice replied that it was Affery: and an old woman came
forward into what doubtful light there was, and kissed her hand
once; then subsided again into the dimness.

'I am able,' said Mrs Clennam, with a slight motion of her worsted-
muffled right hand toward a chair on wheels, standing before a tall
writing cabinet close shut up, 'I am able to attend to my business
duties, and I am thankful for the privilege. It is a great
privilege. But no more of business on this day. It is a bad
night, is it not?'

'Yes, mother.'

'Does it snow?'