An Inebriated Elderly Gentleman In The Last

He Wore A Sprinkling Of Powder Upon His Head, As If To Make Himself Look Benevolent; But If That Were His Purpose, He Would Perhaps Have Done Better To Powder His Countenance Also, For There Was Something In Its Very Wrinkles, And In His Cold Restless Eye, Which Seemed To Tell Of Cunning That Would Announce Itself In Spite Of Him.

The Great Grindstone, Earth, Had Turned When Mr. Lorry Looked Out Again, And The Sun Was Red On The Courtyard. But, The Lesser Grindstone Stood Alone There In The Calm Morning Air, With Red Upon It That The Sun Had Never Give, And Would Never Take Away.

Mrs. Boffin And Me, Ma'am, Are Plain People, And We Don't Want To Pretend To Anything, Nor Yet To Go Round And Round At Anything Because There's Always A Straight Way To Everything.

There Are Strings In The Human Heart That Had Better Not Be Vibrated.

She Forgot To Be Shy At The Moment, In Honestly Warning Him Away From The Sunken Wreck He Had A Dream Of Raising; And Looked At Him With Eyes Which Assuredly, In Association With Her Patient Face, Her Fragile Figure, Her Spare Dress, And The Wind And Rain, Did Not Turn Him From His Purpose Of Helping Her.