If I Could Not Walk Far And

"drink With Me, My Dear," Said Mr. Weller. "put Your Lips To This Here Tumbler, And Then I Can Kiss You By Deputy."

Mr. Pickwick Took A Seat And The Paper, But Instead Of Reading The Latter, Peeped Over The Top Of It, And Took A Survey Of The Man Of Business, Who Was An Elderly, Pimply-faced, Vegetable-diet Sort Of Man, In A Black Coat, Dark Mixture Trousers, And Small Black Gaiters; A Kind Of Being Who Seemed To Be An Essential Part Of The Desk At Which He Was Writing, And To Have As Much Thought Or Sentiment.

I Was So Humiliated, Hurt, Spurned, Offended, Angry, Sorry--i Cannot Hit Upon The Right Name For The Smart--god Knows What Its Name Was--that Tears Started To My Eyes.

When I Have Heard Him Talking To Papa During The Sittings For The Picture, I Have Sat Wondering Whether It Could Be That He Has No Belief In Anybody Else, Because He Has No Belief In Himself.

Hours Are Golden Links--god's Tokens Reaching Heaven.