afterwards； he carried his head high： having plainly got up his castle
now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame。
Building away with all his might； but reserving the plans of his castle
exclusively for his own eye； Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles。
Building on； building on； busily； busily； from morning to night。 Falling
asleep； and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the
air； waking again； to resume work and get them into their places。 What
time the Courier in the rumble； smoking Young john's best cigars； left
a little thread of thin light smoke behind……perhaps as he built a castle
or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit's money。
Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as
strong； not a Cathedral summit was as high； as Mr Dorrit's castle。
Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless
building； nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations； nor
were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road； nor the hills and bay
of Genoa the Superb； more beautiful。 Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle
were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of
Civita Vecchia； and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could； through
the filth that festered on the way。
CHAPTER 19。 The Storming of the Castle in the Air
The sun had gone down full four hours； and it was later than most
travellers would like it to be for finding themselves outside the walls
of Rome； when Mr Dorrit's carriage； still on its last wearisome
stage； rattled over the solitary Campagna。 The savage herdsmen and
the fierce…looking peasants who had chequered the way while the light
lasted； had all gone down with the sun； and left the wilderness
blank。 At some turns of the road； a pale flare on the horizon； like an
exhalation from the ruin…sown land； showed that the city was yet far
off； but this poor relief was rare and short…lived。 The carriage dipped
down again into a hollow of the black dry sea； and for a long time there
was nothing visible save its petrified swell and the gloomy sky。
Mr Dorrit； though he had his castle…building to engage his mind； could
not be quite easy in that desolate place。 He was far more curious； in
every swerve of the carriage； and every cry of the postilions； than he
had been since he quitted London。 The valet on the box evidently quaked。
The Courier in the rumble was not altogether fortable in his mind。 As
often as Mr Dorrit let down the glass and looked back at him （which was
very often）； he saw him smoking John Chivery out； it is true； but still
generally standing up the while and looking about him； like a man who
had his suspicions； and kept upon his guard。 Then would Mr Dorrit；
pulling up the glass again； reflect that those postilions were
cut…throat looking fellows； and that he would have done better to have
slept at Civita Vecchia； and have started betimes in the morning。 But；
for all this； he worked at his castle in the intervals。
And now； fragments of ruinous enclosure； yawning window…gap and crazy
wall； deserted houses； leaking wells； broken water…tanks； spectral
cypress…trees； patches of tangled vine； and the changing of the track to
a long； irregular； disordered lane where everything was crumbling away；
from the unsightly buildings to the jolting road……now； these objects
showed that they were nearing Rome。 And now； a sudden twist and stoppage
of the carriage inspired Mr Dorrit with the mistrust that the brigand
moment was e for twisting him into a ditch and robbing him； until；
letting down the glass again and looking out； he perceived himself
assailed by nothing worse than a funeral procession； which came
mechanically chaunting by； with an indistinct show of dirty vestments；
lurid torches； swinging censers； and a great cross borne before a
priest。 He was an ugly priest by torchlight； of a lowering aspect； with
an overhanging brow； and as his eyes met those of Mr Dorrit； looking
bareheaded out of the carriage； his lips； moving as they chaunted；
seemed to threaten that important traveller； likewise the action of
his hand； which was in fact his manner of returning the traveller's
salutation； seemed to e in aid of that menace。 So thought Mr Dorrit；
made fanciful by the weariness of building and travelling； as the priest
drifted past him； and the procession straggled away； taking its dead
along with it。 Upon their so…different way went Mr Dorrit's pany too；
and soon； with their coach load of luxuries from the two great capitals
of Europe； they were （like the Goths reversed） beating at the gates of
Rome。
Mr Dorrit was not expected by his own people that night。 He had been；
but they had given him up until to…morrow； not doubting that it was
later than he would care； in those parts； to be out。 Thus； when his
equipage stopped at his own gate； no one but the porter appeared to
receive him。 Was Miss Dorrit from home？ he asked。 No。 She was within。
Good； said Mr Dorrit to the assembling servants； let them keep where
they were； let them help to unload the carriage； he would find Miss
Dorrit for himself。 So he went up his grand staircase； slowly； and
tired； and looked into various chambers which were empty； until he saw a
light in a small ante…room。 It was a curtained nook； like a tent；
within two other rooms； and it looked warm and bright in colour； as he
approached it through the dark avenue they made。
There was a draped doorway； but no door； and as he stopped here； looking
in unseen； he felt a pang。 Surely not like jealousy？ For why like
jealousy？ There was only his daughter and his brother there： he； with
his chair drawn to the hearth； enjoying the warmth of the evening wood
fire； she seated at a little table； busied with some embroidery work。
Allowing for the great difference in the still…life of the picture； the
figures were much the same as of old； his brother being sufficiently
like himself to represent himself； for a moment； in the position。
So had he sat many a night； over a coal fire far away； so had she sat；
devoted to him。 Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous of in the old
miserable poverty。 Whence； then； the pang in his heart？
'Do you know； uncle； I think you are growing young again？'
Her uncle shook his head and said； 'Since when； my dear； since when？'
'I think；' returned Little Dorrit； plying her needle； 'that you have
been growing younger for weeks past。 So cheerful； uncle； and so ready；
and so interested。'
'My dear child……all you。'
'All me； uncle！'
'Yes； yes。 You have done me a world of good。 You have been so
considerate of me； and so tender with me； and so delicate in trying to
hide your attentions from me； that I……well； well； well！ It's treasured
up； my darling； treasured up。'
'There is nothing in it but your own fresh fancy； uncle；' said Little
Dorrit； cheerfully。
'Well； well； well！' murmured the old man。 'Thank God！'
She paused for an instant in her work to look at him； and her look
revived that former pain in her father's breast； in his poor weak
breast； so full of contradictions； vacillations； inconsistencies； the
little peevish perplexities of this ignorant life； mists