'There you are, you see. Again as large as life. Oh, never mind

thanking. I've daughters of my own. And though they weren't born in the

Marshalsea Prison, they might have been, if I had been, in my ways of

carrying on, of your father's breed. Stop a bit. I must put something

under the cushion for your head. Here's a burial volume, just the

thing! We have got Mrs Bangham in this book. But what makes these books

interesting to most people is--not who's in 'em, but who isn't--who's

coming, you know, and when. That's the interesting question.'

Commendingly looking back at the pillow he had improvised, he left them

to their hour's repose. Maggy was snoring already, and Little Dorrit

was soon fast asleep with her head resting on that sealed book of Fate,

untroubled by its mysterious blank leaves.

This was Little Dorrit's party. The shame, desertion, wretchedness, and

exposure of the great capital; the wet, the cold, the slow hours, and

the swift clouds of the dismal night. This was the party from which

Little Dorrit went home, jaded, in the first grey mist of a rainy

morning.




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