‘Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot!’ returned my guardian, ‘what shall we find reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice at the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom, unreason and injustice from beginning to end – if it ever has an end – how should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it? He no more gathers grapes from thorns,1 or figs from thistles, than older men did, in old times.’ His
