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Updated: June 18, 2025
Still, her mind was innocent perhaps because it was a blank. I have sometimes thought that blank mind of hers may have been a dead-wall through which the vices of her forebears could not pass, and so her children, if she had them, may have escaped the inheritance, and found a chance for good again, as if crime should at last estop itself. That may be." "Oh, I think this is terrible!"
She had learned early that too impetuous feminine questioning is apt to strike a dead-wall in the masculine mind. "I didn't quite understand what she meant about a knife," she ventured, with an eager glance at her son. He played a little louder, as if he did not hear.
Indeed, upon this one point, she maintained an air of such inflexible stupidity, that if she were really fibbing, her dead-wall countenance superseded the necessity for verbal deceit. It may be, however, that in this particular she was wronged; for, as with many small vessels, the Parki might never have possessed the instrument in question.
The next day I noticed that Bartleby did nothing but stand at his window in his dead-wall revery. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said that he had decided upon doing no more writing. "Why, how now? what next?" exclaimed I, "do no more writing?" "No more." "And what is the reason?" "Do you not see the reason for yourself," he indifferently replied.
He knew too much in the first instance; and he saw too much in the second. He took too deep an interest in native life; but he will never do so again. Deep away in the heart of the City, behind Jitha Megji's bustee, lies Amir Nath's Gully, which ends in a dead-wall pierced by one grated window.
He took too deep an interest in native life; but he will never do so again. Deep away in the heart of the City, behind Jitha Megji's bustee, lies Amir Nath's Gully, which ends in a dead-wall pierced by one grated window. At the head of the Gully is a big cow-byre, and the walls on either side of the Gully are without windows.
I began taking down books from the shelves at regular intervals, sounding the thick dead-wall, in search of a secreted entrance. I came on a row of volumes whose red morocco backs carried nothing but dates. "Account books?" I asked. Worth turned his head to look, and the bleakest thing that could be called a smile twisted his lips a little, as he said, "My father's diaries."
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