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poverty and deprivation
loaded it with their intangible...
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so long, locked up, that he would be frightened—rave—tear himself to pieces—die—come to I know not what harm—if his door was left open."
choose them as real men, of my name—Jacques
to whom the sight is likely to do good.
white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
not the faintness of physical weakness,
was the faintness of solitude and disuse.
like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago.
his confused white hair,
steadfastly vacant gaze,
as if he had lost the habit of associating place with sound;
trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it back to life and hope—
put his hand to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden hairs,
"How was this?—Was it you?"
our native France so wicked to you,
the love of my poor mother hid his torture from me,
hope you care to be
recalled to life?"
Tellson's was the triumphant perfection of inconvenience.
you fell into Tellson's down two steps, and came to your senses in a miserable little shop,
two little co...
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oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the ...
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Temple Bar.
Death is Nature's remedy for all things,
Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention—
Cramped in all kinds of dun cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was old.
kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him.
Outside Tellson's—
was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless upon an errand, and then he was represented by
his son: a grisly urchin of twelve, who was hi...
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His surname was Cruncher,
the added appellation of Jerry.
Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty.
(Mr. Cruncher
himself always ...
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Anna Dom...
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under the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a popular game, by a lady who h...
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Aggerawayter?"
Young Jerry,
his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes, and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did, kept the required watch upon his mother.
Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than ate it,
his favourite description of himself as "a honest tradesman."
Encamped at a quarter before nine,
Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry standing by him,
Father and son, extremely like each other,
resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else in Fleet-street.
Old Bailey was famous as a kind
of deadly inn-yard, from which pale travellers set out continually,
