Charles Dickens,
Little Dorrit — Book 1, Chapter 35
(1857)
“ Her lips seemed to repeat ‘Wonderful fortune?’ He repeated it again, aloud.‘Dear Little Dorrit! Your father.’The ice of the pale face broke at the word, and little lights and shoots of expression passed all over it. They were all expressions of pain. Her breath was faint and hurried. Her heart beat fast. He would have clasped the little figure closer, but he saw that the eyes appealed to him not to be moved.‘Your father can be free within this week. He does not know it; we must go to him from here, to tell him of it. Your father will be free within a few days. ”
