Snow in September

"It is a bad night, is it not?"

"Yes, mother."

"Does it snow?"

"Snow, mother? And we only yet in September?"

Hidden away in her dark corner, Little Dorrit surreptitiously lifts a wrist to her forehead to wipe away beads of perspiration. She sees the tall, grave-looking man standing in the middle of the room glance at the fire briefly, but his face shows only resignation, not surprise. He is Mrs. Clennam's son—he must know as well as she that there is always a fire here. Even in this late summer weather, Mrs. Clennam is cold.

Little Dorrit bends industriously over her work again, but not before observing that there is something striking in the strange gentleman's face, quiet and composed as it is—some openness or frankness of expression, singularly unlike his mother. That expression lingers in her mind, and will come back to her mind later that night as she traverses the dark streets. She does not attempt to understand its impression on her. But it seems to her, as she lowers her eyes to her task, that for a moment the heat and closeness of the invalid's room are a shade less oppressive than they were.