As I drew near, he was--as Polly told me--reading aloud.

The regularity and rapidity with which his fingers ran over line after line, as if he were rubbing out something on a slate, were most striking; and as I stood beside him I distinctly heard him read the verse, "Now Barabbas was a robber." It was a startling coincidence to find him still reading the words which Polly overheard, especially as they were not in any way remarkably adapted for the subject of a prolonged meditation.
Much living alone with grown-up people had, I think, helped towards my acquiring a habit I had of "brown studying," turning things over, brewing them, so to speak, in my mind.

I stood pondering the peculiarities of the object of our charity for some moments, during which he was elaborately occupied in turning over a leaf of his book.
Presently I said-- "What makes you say it out loud when you read ?" He turned his head towards me, blinking and rolling his eyes, and replied in impressive tones-- "It's the pleasure I takes in it, sir." Now as he blinked I watched his eyes with mingled terror, pity, and curiosity.

At this moment a stout and charitable-looking old gentleman was passing, between whom and my blind friend I was standing.

And as he passed he threw the blind man some coppers.