Mr. Doyce had been to Twickenham to pass the day. Clennam had excused himself, Mr. Doyce was just come home. He put in his head at the door of Clennam's sitting-room to say good night. "Come in, come in!" said Clennam—Book 1, chap. xxvi.
He was slowly resuming his way, when he saw a figure in the path before him which he had, perhaps, already associated with the evening and its impressions. Minnie was there alone—Book 1, chap. xxviii.
Why she should then stoop down and look in at the key-hole of the door, as if an eye would open it, it would be difficult to say. From this posture she started suddenly, with a half scream, feeling something on her shoulder. It was the touch of a hand; of a man's hand—Book 1, chap. xxix.
The stranger, taking advantage of this fitful illumination of his visage, looked intently and wonderingly at him—Book 1, chap. xxx.
On their arrival at Mr. Blandois's room, a bottle of port wine was ordered by that gallant gentleman; who coiled himself up on the window-seat, while Mr. Flintwinch took a chair opposite to him, with the table between them—Book 1, chap. xxx.
They were within five minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her own street, they came upon Fanny, in her new bonnet, bound for the same port—Book 1, chap. xxxi.
"Dear Little Dorrit, let me lay it down." She yielded to him, and he put it aside! Her hands were then nervously clasping together—Book 1, chap. xxxii.
"What a good fellow you are, Clennam!" exclaimed the other stopping to look at him, as if with irrepressible admiration. "What a capital fellow! You have never been disappointed. That's easy to see."—Book 1, chap. xxxiv.
Worn out with her own emotions, and yielding to the silence of the room, her hand slowly slackened and failed in its fanning movement, and her head dropped down on the pillow at her father's side. Clennam rose softly, opened and closed the door without a sound—Book 1, chap. xxxv.
Through these spectators, the little procession, headed by the two brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr. Dorrit, yielding to the vast speculation how the poor creatures were to get on without him, was great, and sad, but not absorbed—Book 1, chap. xxxvi.
"Permit me!" said the traveller, rising and holding the door open. "Good repose! To the pleasure of seeing you once more! To to-morrow!" As he kissed her hand, with his best manner, and his daintiest smile, the young lady drew a little nearer to her father, and passed him with a dread of touching him—Book 2, chap. i.
Nevertheless, as they wound round the rugged way while the convent was yet in sight, she more than once looked round, and descried Mr. Blandois, backed by the convent smoke which rose high from the chimneys in a golden film, always standing on one jutting point looking down after them—Book 2, chap. iii.
"It ought to bring a judgment on us. Brother, I protest against it in the sight of God!" As his hand went above his head and came down upon the table, it might have been a blacksmith's—Book 2, chap. v.
Little Dorrit was in front, with her brother and Mrs. General (Mr. Dorrit had remained at home). But on the brink of the quay, they all came together. She started again to find Blandois close to her, handing Fanny into the boat—Book 2, chap. vi.
"Good-bye, my love! Good-bye!" The last words were spoken aloud as the vigilant Blandois stopped, turned his head, and looked at them from the bottom of the staircase—Book 2, chap. vii.
He stopped at the corner, seeming to look back expectantly up the street as if he had made an appointment with some one to meet him there; but he kept a careful eye on the three. When they came together, the man took off his hat and made Miss Wade a bow—Book 2, chap. ix.
"Despatch then! Achieve then! Bring Mr. Flintwinch! Announce me to my lady!" cried the stranger, clanking about the stone floor. "Pray tell me, Affery," said Arthur aloud and sternly, as he surveyed him from head to foot with indignation, "who is this gentleman?"—Book 2, chap. x.
There is a curtain, more dirt-coloured than red, which divides it, and the part behind the curtain makes the private sitting-room. When I first saw her there she was alone, and her work had fallen out of her hand, and she was looking up at the sky shining through the tops of the windows—Book 2, chap. xi.
"And you have really invested," Clennam had already passed to that word, "your thousand pounds, Pancks?" . . . "To be sure, sir!" replied Pancks boldly, with a puff of smoke, "and only wish it ten."—Book 2, chap. xiii.
Little Dorrit used to sit and muse here, much as she had been used to while away the time on her balcony in Venice. Seated thus one day, she was softly touched on the shoulder, and Fanny said, "Well, my dear," and took her seat at her side—Book 2, chap. xiv.
"To preserve your approbation, Mrs. General," said Fanny, returning the smile with one in which there was no trace of those ingredients, "will of course be the highest object of my married life; to lose it, would of course be perfect wretchedness"—Book 2, chap. xv.
"Where is this missing man? Have you come to give us information where he is? I hope you have." "So far from it, I—hum, have come to seek information." . . . "Unfortunately for us, there is none to be got here. Flintwinch, show the gentleman the hand-bill. Give him several to take away. Hold the light for him to read it"—Book 2, chap. xvii.
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—Book 2, chap. xix.
As each of the two handsome faces looked at each other, Clennam felt how each of the two natures must be constantly tearing the other to pieces—Book 2, chap. xx.
One figure reposed upon the bed, the other kneeling on the floor, drooped over it the arms easily and peacefully resting on the coverlet; . . . the two brothers were before their Father; far beyond the twilight judgments of this world; high above its mists and obscurities—Book 2, chap. xix.
After one of the nights that I have spoken of, I came down into a greenhouse before breakfast. Charlotte (the name of my false young friend) had gone down before me, and I heard her aunt speaking to her about me, as I entered. I stopped where I was, among the leaves and listened—Book 2, chap. xxi.
"If I draw you into this black closet and speak here." . . . "Why do you hide your face?" . . . "Because I am afraid of seeing something." . . . "You can't be afraid of seeing anything in this darkness, Affery"—Book 2, chap. xxiii.
"He couldn't have a better nurse to bring him round," Mr. Sparkler made bold to opine. . . . "For a wonder I can agree with you," returned his wife, languidly turning her eyelids a little in his direction, "and can adopt your words"—Book 2, chap. xxiv.
The day was sunny, and the Marshalsea, with the hot noon striking upon it was unwontedly quiet. Arthur Clennam dropped into a solitary arm-chair, itself as faded as any debtor in the gaol, and yielded himself to his thoughts—Book 2, chap. xxvii.
He arose and opened it, and an agreeable voice accosted him with "How do you do, Mr. Clennam? I hope I am not unwelcome in calling to see you." It was the sprightly young Barnacle, Ferdinand—Book 2, chap. xxviii.
And she came towards him with her hands laid on his breast to keep him in his chair, and with her knees upon the floor at his feet, and with her lips raised up to kiss him, and with her tears dropping on him as the rain from heaven had dropped upon the flowers, Little Dorrit, a loving presence, called him by his name—Book 2, chap. xxix.
In a moment, Affery had thrown the stocking down, started up, caught hold of the window-sill with her right hand, lodged herself upon the window seat with her right knee, and was flourishing her left hand, beating expecting assailants off—Book 2, chap. xxx.
The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusky twilight, when the figure, so long unused to them, hurried on its way—Book 2, chap. xxxi.
Mr. Pancks and the patriarch were instantly the centre of a press, all eyes and ears; windows were thrown open, and doorsteps were thronged—Book 2, chap. xxxii.
Such a box had Affery Flintwinch seen in the first of her dreams, going out of the old house . . . this, Tattycoram put on the ground at her old master's feet; this, Tattycoram fell on her knees by, and put her hands upon. . . .—Book 2, chap. xxxiii.
Little Dorrit and her husband walked out of the church alone—Chap. xxxiv.
NINE ILLUSTRATIONSBY E. G. DALZIEL
The moment comes, the fire is dying—and the child is dead—The Long Voyage
"Oh, git along with you, sir, if you please, me and Mrs. Bigby don't want no male parties here"—Births—Mrs. Meeks of a son
"Look at the snivelling milksop," said my uncle—The Poor Relation's Story
In the midst of the kitchen . . . sits a young, modest, gentle-looking creature, with a beautiful child in her lap—On Duty with Inspector Field
"Whether he was the vicar, or Moses, or Mr. Burchill, or a conglomeration of all four, I knew not"—The Ghost of Art
"Are you from the country, young man?" "Yes," I say, "I am"—The Detective Police
"In another room were several ugly old women crouching, witch-like, round a hearth, and chatting and nodding, after the manner of monkeys"—A Walk in a Workhouse
"Mr. Blinkins, are you ill, sir?"—Our School
He took her in his arms and told her it was fancy—A Christmas Tree
Girl
TWENTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONSBY FRED BARNARD
Miss Manette curtsied to Mr. Lorry, with a pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he was than she. He made her another bow—Book 1, Chap. iv.
The wine shop—Book 1, chap. v.
The shoemaker—Book 1, chap. vi.
Messrs. Cruncher and Son—Book 2, chap. i.
And smoothing her rich hair with as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she had been the vainest and handsomest of women—Book 2, chap. vi.
The lion and the jackal—Book 2, chap. v.
He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage—Book 2, chap. viii.
Drive him fast from the tomb. This from Jacques—Book 2, chap. ix.
"Think now and then that there is a man who would give his life to keep a life you love beside you"—Book 2, chap. xiii.
"It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and children draw water? Who can gossip of an evening under that shadow?"—Book 2, chap. xv.
Saint Antoine—Book 2, chap. xvi.
"Still, the doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the ground"—Book 2, chap. xix.
Dragged, and struck at, and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his face by hundreds of hands—Book 2, chap. xxii.
Among the talkers was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar . . . broaching to monseigneur his devices for blowing the people up, and exterminating them from the face of the earth.—Book 2, chap. xxiv.
Some registers were lying open on a desk and an officer of a coarse dark aspect presided over these—Book 3, chap. i.
The Grindstone—Book 3, chap. ii.
The Carmagnole—Book 3, chap. vi.
Here Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall—Book 3, chap. x.
Twice he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his forefinger drew a cross in the air—Book 3, chap. x.
The trial of Evrémonde—Book 3, chap. ix.
As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer—Book 3, chap. xi.
His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with helpless look straying all round, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor—Book 3, chap. xii.
"You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer," said Miss Pross in her breathing. "Nevertheless you shall not get the better of me. I am an Englishwoman"—Book 3, chap. xiv.
The third tumbrel—Book 3, chap. xv.
people fixing a chair
TWENTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONSBY E. G. DALZIEL
Saw from the ladder's elevation, as he looked down by chance towards the shore, some dark, troubled object close in with the land—The Shipwreck
A cheap theatre, Sunday night—Two Views of a Cheap Theatre
Stood a creature remotely in the likeness of a young man, with puffed, sallow face, and a figure all dirty and shiny and slimy, who may have been the youngest son of his filthy old father, Thames—Wapping Workhouse
Mr. Grazinglands looked into a pastrycook's window, hesitating as to the expediency of lunching at that establishment—Refreshments for Travellers
"Bags to hold your money," says the witch, shaking her head and setting her teeth; "you as has got it"—Poor Mercantile Jack
The tall glazed head-dress of his warrior Straudenheim instantly knocked off—Travelling Abroad
He was taken into custody by the police—Shy Neighbourhoods
"Drop of something to drink," interposed the stranger. "I am agreeable"—Chambers
"'Then you're a tramp,' he ses. 'I'd rather be that than a beadle,' I ses"—Tramps
"Am I red to-night?" "You are," he uncompromisingly answered—Night Walks
"A lemon has pips, and a yard has ships, and I'll have chips!"—Nurses' Stories
The wind blows stiffly from the nor'-east . . . and the shapeless passengers lie about in melancholy bundles—The Calais Night Mail
Then dropped upon her knees before us, with protestations that we were right—Some Recollections of Mortality
On the starboard side of the ship a grizzled man dictated a long letter to another grizzled man in an immense fur cap—Bound for the Great Salt Lake
Blinking old men who are let out of the workhouse by the hour have a tendency to sit on bits of coping stone in these churchyards . . . the more depressed class of beggars too bring hither broken meals, and munch—The City of the Absent
Mr. J. Mellows, of the "Dolphin's Head"—An old Stage-coaching House
Building h.m.s. Achilles—Chatham Dockyard
At the station they had been sitting about in their threadbare homespun garments . . . sad enough at heart, most of them—In the French-Flemish Country
It was agreed that Mr. Battens "ought to take it up," and Mr. Battens was communicated with on the subject—Titbull's Almshouses
At the upper end of this dungeon . . . the Englishman first beheld him, sitting on an iron bedstead, to which he was chained by a heavy chain—The Italian Prisoner
Trotting about among the beds, on familiar terms with all the patients, was a comical mongrel dog called Poodles—A Small Star in the East
Over the grog, mixed in a bucket, presides the boatswain's mate—Aboard Ship
This engaging figure approached the fatal lamps—Mr. Barlow
Look at this group at a street corner—The Ruffian
And White Riding Hood was fined ten shillings—The Ruffian
Person standing in moonlight
THIRTY ILLUSTRATIONSBY F. A. FRASER
"Hold your noise!" cried a horrible voice . . . "keep still, you little devil, or I'll cut your throat"—Chap. i.
The sergeant ran in first—Chap. v.
"Why, here's a J!" said Joe, "and a O equal to anythink!"—Chap. vii.
She gave a contemptuous toss . . . and left me—Chap. viii.
He said, "Aha! Would you!" and began dancing backwards and forwards—Chap. xi.