Now, I Return To This Young Fellow.

It Was The Best Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Times.

I Found Uriah Reading A Great Fat Book, With Such Demonstrative Attention, That His Lank Forefinger Followed Up Every Line As He Read, And Made Clammy Tracks Along The Page (or So I Fully Believed) Like A Snail.

I Thought It Very Touching To See These Two Women, Coarse And Shabby And Beaten, So United; To See What They Could Be To One Another; To See How They Felt For One Another, How The Heart Of Each To Each Was Softened By The Hard Trials Of Their Lives. I Think The Best Side Of Such People Is Almost Hidden From Us. What The Poor Are To The Poor Is Little Known, Excepting To Themselves And God.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, Sitting In The Twilight By The Open Window, Enjoys His Wine. As If It Whispered To Him Of Its Fifty Years Of Silence And Seclusion, It Shuts Him Up The Closer. More Impenetrable Than Ever, He Sits, And Drinks, And Mellows As It Were In Secrecy, Pondering At That Twilight Hour On All The Mysteries He Knows.

'there May Be Some, Perhaps - I Don't Know That There Are - Who Abuse His Kindness,' Said Mr. Wickfield. 'never Be One Of Those, Trotwood, In Anything. He Is The Least Suspicious Of Mankind; And Whether That's A Merit, Or Whether It's A Blemish, It Deserves Consideration In All Dealings With The Doctor, Great Or Small.