Charles Dickens

“ Jingle skipped playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of the room.
‘Dear man!’ said the spinster, as the door closed after him.
‘Rum old girl,’ said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.
It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations, as he wended his way to Doctors’ Commons. ”

“ They puts things into old gen’l’m’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything—uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt—very smart—top boots on—nosegay in his button–hole—broad–brimmed tile—green shawl—quite the gen’l’m’n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money—up comes the touter, touches his hat—“Licence, Sir, licence?”—“What’s that?” says my father.—“Licence, Sir,” says he.—“What licence?” ”

“ Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top–boot with increased assiduity.
There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
‘Sam,’ cried the landlady, ‘where’s that lazy, idle—why, Sam—oh, there you are; why don’t you answer?’
‘Vouldn’t be gen–teel to answer, till you’d done talking,’ replied Sam gruffly.
‘Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ’em to private sitting–room, number five, first floor.’
The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, and bustled away. ”

“ Pickwick’s feet; ‘get the name altered—take home the lady—do for Tuppy.’
Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he hurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.
‘Hollo,’ said that eccentric functionary, ‘furniter’s cheap where you come from, Sir. Self–acting ink, that ‘ere; it’s wrote your mark upon the wall, old gen’l’m’n. ”

“ Great, rambling queer old places they are, with galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent neighbourhood on the Surrey side. ”

“ It was in the yard of one of these inns—of no less celebrated a one than the White Hart—that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter. ”

“ Pickwick, ‘I made use of the argument which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed in any case.’
‘Ay, ay,’ said the little man, ‘very good, very good, indeed; but you should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I’m quite certain you cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in professional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my dear sir, let me refer you to the well–known case in Barnwell and—’
‘Never mind George Barnwell,’ interrupted Sam, who had remained a wondering listener during this short colloquy ”

“ I suppose she didn’t come in the vagin.’
‘She came in early this morning,’ cried the girl, who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery, ‘with a gentleman in a hackney–coach, and it’s him as wants his boots, and you’d better do ’em, that’s all about it.’
‘Vy didn’t you say so before,’ said Sam, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. ‘For all I know’d he was one o’ the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady too! ”

“ My father pulls up, and thinks a bit—“No,” says he, “damme, I’m too old, b’sides, I’m a many sizes too large,” says he.—“Not a bit on it, Sir,” says the touter.—“Think not?” says my father.—“I’m sure not,” says he; “we married a gen’l’m’n twice your size, last Monday.”—“Did you, though?” ”