Marley was dead, to begin with ... This must be distintly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

After tea, we discussed a variety of topics before the fire; and Mrs. Micawber was good enough to sing us (in a small, thin, flat voice, which I remembered to have considered, when I first knew her, the very table-beer of acoustics) the favourite ballads of "The Dashing White Sergeant", and "Little Tafflin".

Death is a mighty, universal truth.

He was consious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares, long, long, forgotten.

I do not know the American gentleman, God forgive me for putting two such words together.

Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.

When I have heard him talking to Papa during the sittings for the picture, I have sat wondering whether it could be that he has no belief in anybody else, because he has no belief in himself.