He Was Wise Enough To

Marley Was Dead, To Begin With ... This Must Be Distintly Understood, Or Nothing Wonderful Can Come Of The Story I Am Going To Relate.

What Is Natural In Me, Is Natural In Many Other Men, I Infer, And So I Am Not Afraid To Write That I Never Had Loved Steerforth Better Than When The Ties That Bound Me To Him Were Broken. In The Keen Distress Of The Discovery Of His Unworthiness, I Thought More Of All That Was Brilliant In Him, I Softened More Towards All That Was Good In Him, I Did More Justice To The Qualities That Might Have Made Him A Man Of A Noble Nature And A Great Name, Than Ever I Had Done In The Height Of My Devotion To Him.

Poor Mr. Pickwick! ... If He Played A Wrong Card, Miss Bolo Looked A Small Armoury Of Daggers; If He Stopped To Consider Which Was The Right One, Lady Snuphanuph Would Throw Herself Back In Her Chair, And Smile With A Mingled Glance Of Impatience And Pity To Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, At Which Mrs. Colonel Wugsby Would Shrug Up Her Shoulders, And Cough, As Much As To Say She Wondered Whether He Ever Would Begin.

Without Strong Affection, And Humanity Of Heart, And Gratitude To That Being Whose Code Is Mercy, And Whose Great Attribute Is Benevolence To All Things That Breathe, True Happiness Can Never Be Attained.

He Went To Church, And Walked About The Streets, And Watched The People Hurrying To And Fro, And Patted Children On The Head, And Questioned Beggars, And Looked Down Into The Kitchens Of Houses, And Up To The Windows; And Found That Everything Could Yield Him Pleasure. He Had Never Dreamed That Any Walk — That Anything — Could Give Him So Much Happiness.