There Was A Long Hard Time When

Fog Everywhere. Fog Up The River Where It Flows Among Green Airs And Meadows; Fog Down The River, Where It Rolls Defiled Among The Tiers Of Shipping, And The Waterside Pollutions Of A Great (and Dirty) City.... Chance People On The Bridges Peeping Over The Parapets Into A Nether Sky Of Fog, With Fog All Round Them, As If They Were Up In A Balloon And Hanging In The Misty Clouds.

"i Take My Leave Of You, Mr. Creakle, And All Of You," Said Mr. Mell, Glancing Round The Room, And Again Patting Me Gently On The Shoulders. "james Steerforth, The Best Wish I Can Leave You Is That You May Come To Be Ashamed Of What You Have Done Today. At Present I Would Prefer To See You Anything Rather Than A Friend, To Me, Or To Anyone In Whom I Feel An Interest."

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.

"lord Bless You!" Said Mr. Omer, Resuming His Pipe, "a Man Must Take The Fat With The Lean; That's What He Must Make Up His Mind To, In This Life. "

There Was No Wind; There Was No Passing Shadow On The Deep Shade Of The Night; There Was No Noise. The City Lay Behind Him, Lighted Here And There, And Starry Worlds Were Hidden By The Masonry Of Spire And Roof That Hardly Made Out Any Shapes Against The Sky. Dark And Lonely Distance Lay Around Him Everywhere, And The Clocks Were Faintly Striking Two.