It Is A Melancholy Truth That Even

Then, At The End Of Every Hand, Miss Bolo Would Inquire With A Dismal Countenance And Reproachful Sigh, Why Mr. Pickwick Had Not Returned That Diamond, Or Led The Club, Or Roughed The Spade, Or Finessed The Heart, Or Led Through The Honour, Or Brought Out The Ace, Or Played Up To The King, Or Some Such Thing; And In Reply To All These Grave Charges, Mr. Pickwick Would Be Wholly Unable To Plead Any Justification Whatever, Having By This Time Forgotten All About The Game.

Although A Man May Lose A Sense Of His Own Importance When He Is A Mere Unit Among A Busy Throng, All Utterly Regardless Of Him, It By No Means Follows That He Can Dispossess Himself, With Equal Facility, Of A Very Strong Sense Of The Importance And Magnitude Of His Cares.

It Is A Fair, Even-handed, Noble Adjustment Of Things, That While There Is Infection In Disease And Sorrow, There Is Nothing In The World So Irresistibly Contagious As Laughter And Good Humour.

She Dotes On Poetry, Sir. She Adores It; I May Say That Her Whole Soul And Mind Are Wound Up, And Entwined With It. She Has Produced Some Delightful Pieces, Herself, Sir. You May Have Met With Her 'ode To An Expiring Frog,' Sir.

And O There Are Days In This Life, Worth Life And Worth Death. And O What A Bright Old Song It Is, That O 'tis Love, 'tis Love, 'tis Love That Makes The World Go Round!