Dickens writes that an event, "began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself.

Veels vithin veels, a prison in a prison.

... I had a latent impression that there was something decidedly fine in Mr. Wopsle's elocution - not for old associations' sake, I am afraid, but because it was very slow, very dreary, very up-hill and down-hill, and very unlike any way in which any man in any natural circumstances of life or death ever expressed himself about anything.

We all draw a little and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money.

Black are the brooding clouds and troubled the deep waters, when the Sea of Thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its Dead

Poetry's unnat'ral; no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day.

Champagne is simply one of the elegant extras of life.