prompt:
Chapter: The term of Mr Dorrit's visit was within two days of being out, and he
was about to dress for another inspection by the Chief Butler (whose
        victims were always dressed expressly for him), when one of the servants
of the hotel presented himself bearing a card. Mr Dorrit, taking it,
   read:

   'Mrs Finching.'

   The servant waited in speechless deference.

   'Man, man,' said Mr Dorrit, turning upon him with grievous indignation,
   'explain your motive in bringing me this ridiculous name. I am wholly
   unacquainted with it. Finching, sir?' said Mr Dorrit, perhaps avenging
   himself on the Chief Butler by Substitute. 'Ha! What do you mean by
   Finching?'

   The man, man, seemed to mean Flinching as much as anything else, for
   he backed away from Mr Dorrit's severe regard, as he replied, 'A lady,
   sir.'

   'I know no such lady, sir,' said Mr Dorrit. 'Take this card away. I know
   no Finching of either sex.'

   'Ask your pardon, sir. The lady said she was aware she might be unknown
   by name. But she begged me to say, sir, that she had formerly the honour
   of being acquainted with Miss Dorrit. The lady said, sir, the youngest
   Miss Dorrit.'

   Mr Dorrit knitted his brows and rejoined, after a moment or two, 'Inform
   Mrs Finching, sir,' emphasising the name as if the innocent man were
   solely responsible for it, 'that she can come up.'

   He had reflected, in his momentary pause, that unless she were admitted
   she might leave some message, or might say something below, having
   a disgraceful reference to that former state of existence. Hence the
   concession, and hence the appearance of Flora, piloted in by the man,
   man.

   'I have not the pleasure,' said Mr Dorrit, standing with the card in his
   hand, and with an air which imported that it would scarcely have been a
   first-class pleasure if he had had it, 'of knowing either this name, or
   yourself, madam. Place a chair, sir.'

   The responsible man, with a start, obeyed, and went out on tiptoe.
   Flora, putting aside her veil with a bashful tremor upon her, proceeded
   to introduce herself. At the same time a singular combination of
   perfumes was diffused through the room, as if some brandy had been put
   by mistake in a lavender-water bottle, or as if some lavender-water had
   been put by mistake in a brandy-bottle.

   'I beg Mr Dorrit to offer a thousand apologies and indeed they would
   be far too few for such an intrusion which I know must appear extremely
   bold in a lady and alone too, but I thought it best upon the whole
   however difficult and even apparently improper though Mr F.'s Aunt would
   have willingly accompanied me and as a character of great force and
   spirit would probably have struck one possessed of such a knowledge of
   life as no doubt with so many changes must have been acquired, for Mr F.
   himself said frequently that although well educated in the neighbourhood
   of Blackheath at as high as eighty guineas which is a good deal for
   parents and the plate kept back too on going away but that is more a
   meanness than its value that he had learnt more in his first years as a
   commercial traveller with a large commission on the sale of an article
   that nobody would hear of much less buy which preceded the wine trade
   a long time than in the whole six years in that academy conducted by a
   college Bachelor, though why a Bachelor more clever than a married man I
   do not see and never did but pray excuse me that is not the point.'

   Mr Dorrit stood rooted to the carpet, a statue of mystification.

   'I must openly admit that I have no pretensions,' said Flora, 'but
   having known the dear little thing which under altered circumstances
   appears a liberty but is not so intended and Goodness knows there was no
   favour in half-a-crown a-day to such a needle as herself but quite the
   other way and as to anything lowering in it far from it the labourer is
   worthy of his hire and I am sure I only wish he got it oftener and more
   animal food and less rheumatism in the back and legs poor soul.'

   'Madam,' said Mr Dorrit, recovering his breath by a great effort, as the
   relict of the late Mr Finching stopped to take hers; 'madam,' said Mr
   Dorrit, very red in the face, 'if I understand you to refer to--ha--to
   anything in the antecedents of--hum--a daughter of mine, involving--ha
   hum--daily compensation, madam, I beg to observe that the--ha--fact,
   assuming it--ha--to be fact, never was within my knowledge. Hum. I
   should not have permitted it. Ha. Never! Never!'

   'Unnecessary to pursue the subject,' returned Flora, 'and would not have
   mentioned it on any account except as supposing it a favourable and only
   letter of introduction but as to being fact no doubt whatever and you
   may set your mind at rest for the very dress I have on now can prove it
   and sweetly made though there is no denying that it would tell better on
   a better figure for my own is much too fat though how to bring it down I
   know not, pray excuse me I am roving off again.'

   Mr Dorrit backed to his chair in a stony way, and seated himself, as
   Flora gave him a softening look and played with her parasol.

   'The dear little thing,' said Flora, 'having gone off perfectly limp
   and white and cold in my own house or at least papa's for though not
   a freehold still a long lease at a peppercorn on the morning when
   Arthur--foolish habit of our youthful days and Mr Clennam far more
   adapted to existing circumstances particularly addressing a stranger and
   that stranger a gentleman in an elevated station--communicated the glad
   tidings imparted by a person of name of Pancks emboldens me.'

   At the mention of these two names, Mr Dorrit frowned, stared, frowned
   again, hesitated with his fingers at his lips, as he had hesitated long
   ago, and said, 'Do me the favour to--ha--state your pleasure, madam.'

   'Mr Dorrit,' said Flora, 'you are very kind in giving me permission and
   highly natural it seems to me that you should be kind for though more
   stately I perceive a likeness filled out of course but a likeness still,
   the object of my intruding is my own without the slightest consultation
   with any human being and most decidedly not with Arthur--pray excuse me
   Doyce and Clennam I don't know what I am saying Mr Clennam solus--for to
   put that individual linked by a golden chain to a purple time when all
   was ethereal out of any anxiety would be worth to me the ransom of a
   monarch not that I have the least idea how much that would come to but
   using it as the total of all I have in the world and more.'

   Mr Dorrit, without greatly regarding the earnestness of these latter
   words, repeated, 'State your pleasure, madam.'

   'It's not likely I well know,' said Flora, 'but it's possible and being
   possible when I had the gratification of reading in the papers that you
   had arrived from Italy and were going back I made up my mind to try it
   for you might come across him or hear something of him and if so what a
   blessing and relief to all!'

   'Allow me to ask, madam,' said Mr Dorrit, with his ideas in wild
   confusion, 'to whom--ha--TO WHOM,' he repeated it with a raised voice in
   mere desperation, 'you at present allude?'

   'To the foreigner from Italy who disappeared in the City as no doubt you
   have read in the papers equally with myself,' said Flora, 'not referring
   to private sources by the name of Pancks from which one gathers what
   dreadfully ill-natured things some people are wicked enough to whisper
   most likely judging others by themselves and what the uneasiness
   and indignation of Arthur--quite unable to overcome it Doyce and
   Clennam--cannot fail to be.'

   It happened, fortunately for the elucidation of any intelligible result,
   that Mr Dorrit had heard or read nothing about the matter. This
   caused Mrs Finching, with many apologies for being in great practical
   difficulties as to finding the way to her pocket among the stripes of
   her dress at length to produce a police handbill, setting forth that
   a foreign gentleman of the name of Blandois, last from Venice, had
   unaccountably disappeared on such a night in such a part of the city of
   London; that he was known to have entered such a house, at such an hour;
   that he was stated by the inmates of that house to have left it, about
   so many minutes before midnight; and that he had never been beheld
   since. This, with exact particulars of time and locality, and with
   a good detailed description of the foreign gentleman who had so
   mysteriously vanished, Mr Dorrit read at large.

   'Blandois!' said Mr Dorrit. 'Venice! And this description! I know this
   gentleman. He has been in my house. He is intimately acquainted with a
   gentleman of good family (but in indifferent circumstances), of whom I
   am a--hum--patron.'

   'Then my humble and pressing entreaty is the more,' said Flora, 'that
   in travelling back you will have the kindness to look for this foreign
   gentleman along all the roads and up and down all the turnings and to
   make inquiries for him at all the hotels and orange-trees and vineyards
   and volcanoes and places for he must be somewhere and why doesn't he
   come forward and say he's there and clear all parties up?'

   'Pray, madam,' said Mr Dorrit, referring to the handbill again, 'who is
   Clennam and Co.? Ha. I see the name mentioned here, in connection with
   the occupation of the house which Monsieur Blandois was seen to
   enter: who is Clennam and Co.? Is it the individual of whom I had
   formerly--hum--some--ha--slight transitory knowledge, and to whom I
   believe you have referred? Is it--ha--that person?'

   'It's a very different person indeed,' replied Flora, 'with no limbs and
   wheels instead and the grimmest of women though his mother.'

   'Clennam and Co. a--hum--a mother!' exclaimed Mr Dorrit.

   'And an old man besides,' said Flora.

   Mr Dorrit looked as if he must immediately be driven out of his mind
   by this account. Neither was it rendered more favourable to sanity by
   Flora's dashing into a rapid analysis of Mr Flintwinch's cravat, and
   describing him, without the lightest boundary line of separation between
   his identity and Mrs Clennam's, as a rusty screw in gaiters. Which
   compound of man and woman, no limbs, wheels, rusty screw, grimness, and
   gaiters, so completely stupefied Mr Dorrit, that he was a spectacle to
   be pitied.

   'But I would not detain you one moment longer,' said Flora, upon whom
   his condition wrought its effect, though she was quite unconscious of
   having produced it, 'if you would have the goodness to give your promise
   as a gentleman that both in going back to Italy and in Italy too you
   would look for this Mr Blandois high and low and if you found or heard
   of him make him come forward for the clearing of all parties.'

   By that time Mr Dorrit had so far recovered from his bewilderment, as to
   be able to say, in a tolerably connected manner, that he should consider
   that his duty. Flora was delighted with her success, and rose to take
   her leave.

   'With a million thanks,' said she, 'and my address upon my card in case
   of anything to be communicated personally, I will not send my love to
   the dear little thing for it might not be acceptable, and indeed there
   is no dear little thing left in the transformation so why do it but
   both myself and Mr F.'s Aunt ever wish her well and lay no claim to any
   favour on our side you may be sure of that but quite the other way for
   what she undertook to do she did and that is more than a great many of
   us do, not to say anything of her doing it as well as it could be
   done and I myself am one of them for I have said ever since I began to
   recover the blow of Mr F's death that I would learn the Organ of which
   I am extremely fond but of which I am ashamed to say I do not yet know a
   note, good evening!'

   When Mr Dorrit, who attended her to the room-door, had had a little time
   to collect his senses, he found that the interview had summoned back
   discarded reminiscences which jarred with the Merdle dinner-table.
   He wrote and sent off a brief note excusing himself for that day, and
   ordered dinner presently in his own rooms at the hotel. He had another
   reason for this. His time in London was very nearly out, and was
   anticipated by engagements; his plans were made for returning; and he
   thought it behoved his importance to pursue some direct inquiry into the
   Blandois disappearance, and be in a condition to carry back to Mr
   Henry Gowan the result of his own personal investigation. He therefore
   resolved that he would take advantage of that evening's freedom to go
   down to Clennam and Co.'s, easily to be found by the direction set forth
   in the handbill; and see the place, and ask a question or two there
   himself.

   Having dined as plainly as the establishment and the Courier would let
   him, and having taken a short sleep by the fire for his better recovery
   from Mrs Finching, he set out in a hackney-cabriolet alone. The deep
   bell of St Paul's was striking nine as he passed under the shadow of
   Temple Bar, headless and forlorn in these degenerate days.

   As he approached his destination through the by-streets and water-side
   ways, that part of London seemed to him an uglier spot at such an hour
   than he had ever supposed it to be. Many long years had passed since he
   had seen it; he had never known much of it; and it wore a mysterious and
   dismal aspect in his eyes. So powerfully was his imagination impressed
   by it, that when his driver stopped, after having asked the way more
   than once, and said to the best of his belief this was the gateway they
   wanted, Mr Dorrit stood hesitating, with the coach-door in his hand,
   half afraid of the dark look of the place.

   Truly, it looked as gloomy that night as even it had ever looked. Two of
   the handbills were posted on the entrance wall, one on either side, and
   as the lamp flickered in the night air, shadows passed over them, not
   unlike the shadows of fingers following the lines. A watch was evidently
   kept upon the place. As Mr Dorrit paused, a man passed in from over the
   way, and another man passed out from some dark corner within; and both
   looked at him in passing, and both remained standing about.

   As there was only one house in the enclosure, there was no room for
   uncertainty, so he went up the steps of that house and knocked. There
   was a dim light in two windows on the first-floor. The door gave back
   a dreary, vacant sound, as though the house were empty; but it was not,
   for a light was visible, and a step was audible, almost directly. They
   both came to the door, and a chain grated, and a woman with her apron
   thrown over her face and head stood in the aperture.

   'Who is it?' said the woman.

   Mr Dorrit, much amazed by this appearance, replied that he was from
   Italy, and that he wished to ask a question relative to the missing
   person, whom he knew.

   'Hi!' cried the woman, raising a cracked voice. 'Jeremiah!'

   Upon this, a dry old man appeared, whom Mr Dorrit thought he identified
   by his gaiters, as the rusty screw. The woman was under apprehensions
   of the dry old man, for she whisked her apron away as he approached, and
   disclosed a pale affrighted face. 'Open the door, you fool,' said the
   old man; 'and let the gentleman in.'

   Mr Dorrit, not without a glance over his shoulder towards his driver and
   the cabriolet, walked into the dim hall. 'Now, sir,' said Mr Flintwinch,
   'you can ask anything here you think proper; there are no secrets here,
   sir.'

   Before a reply could be made, a strong stern voice, though a woman's,
   called from above, 'Who is it?'

   'Who is it?' returned Jeremiah. 'More inquiries. A gentleman from
   Italy.'

   'Bring him up here!'

   Mr Flintwinch muttered, as if he deemed that unnecessary; but, turning
   to Mr Dorrit, said, 'Mrs Clennam. She _will_ do as she likes. I'll show
   you the way.' He then preceded Mr Dorrit up the blackened staircase;
   that gentleman, not unnaturally looking behind him on the road, saw the
   woman following, with her apron thrown over her head again in her former
   ghastly manner.

   Mrs Clennam had her books open on her little table. 'Oh!' said she
   abruptly, as she eyed her visitor with a steady look. 'You are from
   Italy, sir, are you. Well?'

   Mr Dorrit was at a loss for any more distinct rejoinder at the moment
   than 'Ha--well?'

   'Where is this missing man? Have you come to give us information where
   he is? I hope you have?'

   'So far from it, I--hum--have come to seek information.'

   'Unfortunately for us, there is none to be got here. Flintwinch, show
   the gentleman the handbill. Give him several to take away. Hold the
   light for him to read it.'

   Mr Flintwinch did as he was directed, and Mr Dorrit read it through,
   as if he had not previously seen it; glad enough of the opportunity of
   collecting his presence of mind, which the air of the house and of the
   people in it had a little disturbed. While his eyes were on the paper,
   he felt that the eyes of Mr Flintwinch and of Mrs Clennam were on him.
   He found, when he looked up, that this sensation was not a fanciful one.

   'Now you know as much,' said Mrs Clennam, 'as we know, sir. Is Mr
   Blandois a friend of yours?'

   'No--a--hum--an acquaintance,' answered Mr Dorrit.

   'You have no commission from him, perhaps?'

   'I? Ha. Certainly not.'

   The searching look turned gradually to the floor, after taking Mr
   Flintwinch's face in its way. Mr Dorrit, discomfited by finding that
   he was the questioned instead of the questioner, applied himself to the
   reversal of that unexpected order of things.

   'I am--ha--a gentleman of property, at present residing in Italy with my
   family, my servants, and--hum--my rather large establishment. Being in
   London for a short time on affairs connected with--ha--my estate,
   and hearing of this strange disappearance, I wished to make myself
   acquainted with the circumstances at first-hand, because there is--ha
   hum--an English gentleman in Italy whom I shall no doubt see on my
   return, who has been in habits of close and daily intimacy with Monsieur
   Blandois. Mr Henry Gowan. You may know the name.'

   'Never heard of it.'

   Mrs Clennam said it, and Mr Flintwinch echoed it.

   'Wishing to--ha--make the narrative coherent and consecutive to him,'
   said Mr Dorrit, 'may I ask--say, three questions?'

   'Thirty, if you choose.'

   'Have you known Monsieur Blandois long?'

   'Not a twelvemonth. Mr Flintwinch here, will refer to the books and tell
   you when, and by whom at Paris he was introduced to us. If that,'
   Mrs Clennam added, 'should be any satisfaction to you. It is poor
   satisfaction to us.'

   'Have you seen him often?'

   'No. Twice. Once before, and--'

   'That once,' suggested Mr Flintwinch.

   'And that once.'

   'Pray, madam,' said Mr Dorrit, with a growing fancy upon him as he
   recovered his importance, that he was in some superior way in the
   Commission of the Peace; 'pray, madam, may I inquire, for the greater
   satisfaction of the gentleman whom I have the honour to--ha--retain, or
   protect or let me say to--hum--know--to know--Was Monsieur Blandois here
   on business on the night indicated in this present sheet?'

   'On what he called business,' returned Mrs Clennam.

   'Is--ha--excuse me--is its nature to be communicated?'

   'No.'

   It was evidently impracticable to pass the barrier of that reply.

   'The question has been asked before,' said Mrs Clennam, 'and the answer
   has been, No. We don't choose to publish our transactions, however
   unimportant, to all the town. We say, No.'

   'I mean, he took away no money with him, for example,' said Mr Dorrit.

   'He took away none of ours, sir, and got none here.'

   'I suppose,' observed Mr Dorrit, glancing from Mrs Clennam to Mr
   Flintwinch, and from Mr Flintwinch to Mrs Clennam, 'you have no way of
   accounting to yourself for this mystery?'

   'Why do you suppose so?' rejoined Mrs Clennam.

   Disconcerted by the cold and hard inquiry, Mr Dorrit was unable to
   assign any reason for his supposing so.

   'I account for it, sir,' she pursued after an awkward silence on Mr
   Dorrit's part, 'by having no doubt that he is travelling somewhere, or
   hiding somewhere.'

   'Do you know--ha--why he should hide anywhere?'

   'No.'

   It was exactly the same No as before, and put another barrier up.

   'You asked me if I accounted for the disappearance to myself,' Mrs
   Clennam sternly reminded him, 'not if I accounted for it to you. I do
   not pretend to account for it to you, sir. I understand it to be no more
   my business to do that, than it is yours to require that.'

   Mr Dorrit answered with an apologetic bend of his head. As he stepped
   back, preparatory to saying he had no more to ask, he could not but
   observe how gloomily and fixedly she sat with her eyes fastened on
   the ground, and a certain air upon her of resolute waiting; also,
   how exactly the self-same expression was reflected in Mr Flintwinch,
   standing at a little distance from her chair, with his eyes also on the
   ground, and his right hand softly rubbing his chin.

At that moment, Mistress Affery (of course, the woman with the apron)
    dropped the candlestick she held, and cried out, 'There! O good Lord!
    there it is again. Hark, Jeremiah! Now!'

    If there were any sound at all, it was so slight that she must have
    fallen into a confirmed habit of listening for sounds; but Mr Dorrit
    believed he did hear a something, like the falling of dry leaves. The
    woman's terror, for a very short space, seemed to touch the three; and
    they all listened.

    Mr Flintwinch was the first to stir. 'Affery, my woman,' said he,
    sidling at her with his fists clenched, and his elbows quivering with
    impatience to shake her, 'you are at your old tricks. You'll be walking
    in your sleep next, my woman, and playing the whole round of your
    distempered antics. You must have some physic. When I have shown this
    gentleman out, I'll make you up such a comfortable dose, my woman; such
    a comfortable dose!'

    It did not appear altogether comfortable in expectation to Mistress
    Affery; but Jeremiah, without further reference to his healing medicine,
    took another candle from Mrs Clennam's table, and said, 'Now, sir; shall
    I light you down?'

    Mr Dorrit professed himself obliged, and went down. Mr Flintwinch shut
    him out, and chained him out, without a moment's loss of time.
    He was again passed by the two men, one going out and the other coming
    in; got into the vehicle he had left waiting, and was driven away.

    Before he had gone far, the driver stopped to let him know that he
    had given his name, number, and address to the two men, on their joint
    requisition; and also the address at which he had taken Mr Dorrit up,
    the hour at which he had been called from his stand and the way by which
    he had come. This did not make the night's adventure run any less hotly
    in Mr Dorrit's mind, either when he sat down by his fire again, or
    when he went to bed. All night he haunted the dismal house, saw the two
    people resolutely waiting, heard the woman with her apron over her face
    cry out about the noise, and found the body of the missing Blandois, now
    buried in the cellar, and now bricked up in a wall.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After almost two weeks Dorrit is about to go back to Italy. His servant announces a Mrs. Finching. Dorrit has no idea who this might be, but the servant says she claims to know Amy. Worried that she's going to spill the beans about prison, Dorrit asks her up. Flora introduces herself. And by "introduces herself" we of course mean that she speaks for five pages of uninterrupted, unpunctuated run-on sentences that make no sense to Dorrit and barely any sense to us. It's awesomely hilarious. Finally he demands that she get to the point. The point is that Blandois has gone missing, and Flora is hoping that since Dorrit is going to Italy, he could try to ask about him on the way back. It seems that Clennam and Co. are under some suspicion. Dorrit hasn't ever heard of Mrs. Clennam, but is still angry at Arthur, so the name gets his hackles up. Still, he is all, what? She shows him a newspaper clipping telling much the same story. Dorrit immediately recognizes Blandois as Gowan's friend and agrees to help in the search. This makes Dorrit feel important all of a sudden. He decides to investigate the situation and so goes off to Mrs. Clennam's house. The house is being watched by the police. Affery opens the door, Flintwinch asks him in, and Mrs. Clennam invites him upstairs. Dorrit tries to ask some questions but is stymied by the crazy-town atmosphere of the place and the stonewalling Mrs. Clennam. No new info emerges about anything; however, he doesn't end up telling them his name because it never comes up. So no one connects him with Little Dorrit... although they do stare at him pretty hard. Finally, as he is leaving, Affery again hears a strange house noise and screams. Dorrit is glad to get the heck out of there, and he has nightmares about the experience.


prompt:
Chapter: Manifold are the cares of wealth and state. Mr Dorrit's satisfaction in
remembering that it had not been necessary for him to announce himself
to Clennam and Co., or to make an allusion to his having had any
knowledge of the intrusive person of that name, had been damped
over-night, while it was still fresh, by a debate that arose within him
whether or no he should take the Marshalsea in his way back, and look
at the old gate. He had decided not to do so; and had astonished the
coachman by being very fierce with him for proposing to go over London
Bridge and recross the river by Waterloo Bridge--a course which would
have taken him almost within sight of his old quarters. Still, for all
that, the question had raised a conflict in his breast; and, for some
odd reason or no reason, he was vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the Merdle
dinner-table next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he
continued at intervals to turn it over and over, in a manner frightfully
inconsistent with the good society surrounding him. It made him hot to
think what the Chief Butler's opinion of him would have been, if that
illustrious personage could have plumbed with that heavy eye of his the
stream of his meditations.

The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit
in a most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her
youth and beauty, a certain weight of self-sustainment as if she had
been married twenty years. He felt that he could leave her with a
quiet mind to tread the paths of distinction, and wished--but without
abatement of patronage, and without prejudice to the retiring virtues of
his favourite child--that he had such another daughter.

'My dear,' he told her at parting, 'our family looks to you
to--ha--assert its dignity and--hum--maintain its importance. I know you
will never disappoint it.'

'No, papa,' said Fanny, 'you may rely upon that, I think. My best love
to dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.'

'Shall I convey any message to--ha--anybody else?' asked Mr Dorrit, in
an insinuating manner.

'Papa,' said Fanny, before whom Mrs General instantly loomed, 'no, I
thank you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There
is no other message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at
all agreeable to you to take.'

They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr Sparkler waited
on his lady, and dutifully bided his time for shaking hands. When Mr
Sparkler was admitted to this closing audience, Mr Merdle came creeping
in with not much more appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he
had been the twin brother of Miss Biffin, and insisted on escorting
Mr Dorrit down-stairs. All Mr Dorrit's protestations being in vain,
   he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the hall-door by this
   distinguished man, who (as Mr Dorrit told him in shaking hands on the
           step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during
   this memorable visit. Thus they parted; Mr Dorrit entering his carriage
   with a swelling breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had
   come to take leave in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of
   beholding the grandeur of his departure.

   The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr Dorrit when he alighted at
   his hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel
   servants, he was passing through the hall with a serene magnificence,
   when lo! a sight presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless.
   John Chivery, in his best clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his
   ivory-handled cane genteelly embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle
   of cigars in his hand!

   'Now, young man,' said the porter. 'This is the gentleman. This young
   man has persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.'

   Mr Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of
   tones, 'Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?'

   'Yes, sir,' returned Young John.

   'I--ha--thought it was Young John!' said Mr Dorrit. 'The young man may
   come up,' turning to the attendants, as he passed on: 'oh yes, he may
   come up. Let Young John follow. I will speak to him above.'

   Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr Dorrit's rooms were
   reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew.

   'Now, sir,' said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by
   the collar when they were safely alone. 'What do you mean by this?'

   The amazement and horror depicted in the unfortunate John's face--for
   he had rather expected to be embraced next--were of that powerfully
   expressive nature that Mr Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at
   him.

   'How dare you do this?' said Mr Dorrit. 'How do you presume to come
   here? How dare you insult me?'

   'I insult you, sir?' cried Young John. 'Oh!'

   'Yes, sir,' returned Mr Dorrit. 'Insult me. Your coming here is an
   affront, an impertinence, an audacity. You are not wanted here.
   Who sent you here? What--ha--the Devil do you do here?'

   'I thought, sir,' said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as
   ever had been turned to Mr Dorrit's in his life--even in his College
   life: 'I thought, sir, you mightn't object to have the goodness to
   accept a bundle--'

   'Damn your bundle, sir!' cried Mr Dorrit, in irrepressible rage.
   'I--hum--don't smoke.'

   'I humbly beg your pardon, sir. You used to.'

   'Tell me that again,' cried Mr Dorrit, quite beside himself, 'and I'll
   take the poker to you!'

   John Chivery backed to the door.

   'Stop, sir!' cried Mr Dorrit. 'Stop! Sit down. Confound you sit down!'

   John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit
   walked up and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once,
   he went to the window, and stood there with his forehead against the
   glass. All of a sudden, he turned and said:

   'What else did you come for, Sir?'

   'Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I
   hoped you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?'

   'What's that to you, sir?' retorted Mr Dorrit.

   'It's nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening the
   distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it's a liberty, sir, but I never
   thought you'd have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,' said
   Young John, with emotion, 'in my poor way, I am too proud to have come,
   I assure you, if I had thought so.'

   Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his
   forehead against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his
   handkerchief in his hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and
   he looked tired and ill.

   'Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but--ha--some
   remembrances are not happy remembrances, and--hum--you shouldn't have
   come.'

   'I feel that now, sir,' returned John Chivery; 'but I didn't before, and
   Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.'

   'No. No,' said Mr Dorrit. 'I am--hum--sure of that. Ha. Give me your
   hand, Young John, give me your hand.'

   Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and
   nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.

   'There!' said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. 'Sit down again,
   Young John.'

   'Thank you, sir--but I'd rather stand.'

   Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little
   while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:

   'And how is your father, Young John? How--ha--how are they all, Young
   John?'

   'Thank you, sir, They're all pretty well, sir. They're not any ways
   complaining.'

   'Hum. You are in your--ha--old business I see, John?' said Mr Dorrit,
   with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.

   'Partly, sir. I am in my'--John hesitated a little--'father's business
   likewise.'

   'Oh indeed!' said Mr Dorrit. 'Do you--ha hum--go upon the ha--'

   'Lock, sir? Yes, sir.'

   'Much to do, John?'

   'Yes, sir; we're pretty heavy at present. I don't know how it is, but we
   generally _are_ pretty heavy.'

   'At this time of the year, Young John?'

   'Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don't know the time that makes
   much difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.'

   'Stay a moment, John--ha--stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John,
   I--ha--beg.'

   'Certainly, sir.' John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table.

   'Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a--ha--a
   gratification to me to send a little--hum--Testimonial, by such a trusty
   messenger, to be divided among--ha hum--them--_them_--according to their
   wants. Would you object to take it, John?'

   'Not in any ways, sir. There's many of them, I'm sure, that would be the
   better for it.'

   'Thank you, John. I--ha--I'll write it, John.'

   His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in
   a tremulous scrawl at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He
   folded it up, put it in Young John's hand, and pressed the hand in his.

   'I hope you'll--ha--overlook--hum--what has passed, John.'

   'Don't speak of it, sir, on any accounts. I don't in any ways bear
   malice, I'm sure.'

   But nothing while John was there could change John's face to its natural
   colour and expression, or restore John's natural manner.

   'And, John,' said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and
   releasing it, 'I hope we--ha--agree that we have spoken together
   in confidence; and that you will abstain, in going out, from saying
   anything to any one that might--hum--suggest that--ha--once I--'

   'Oh! I assure you, sir,' returned John Chivery, 'in my poor humble way,
   sir, I'm too proud and honourable to do it, sir.'

   Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that
   he might ascertain for himself whether John really went straight out, or
   lingered to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went
   direct out at the door, and away down the street with a quick step.
   After remaining alone for an hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier,
   who found him with his chair on the hearth-rug, sitting with his back
   towards him and his face to the fire. 'You can take that bundle of
   cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,' said Mr Dorrit, with
   a careless wave of his hand. 'Ha--brought by--hum--little offering
   from--ha--son of old tenant of mine.'

   Next morning's sun saw Mr Dorrit's equipage upon the Dover road, where
   every red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established
   for the unmerciful plundering of travellers. The whole business of the
   human race, between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was
   waylaid at Dartford, pillaged at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced
   at Sittingbourne, and sacked at Canterbury. However, it being the
   Courier's business to get him out of the hands of the banditti, the
   Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the red-jackets went
   gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling to
   a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug corner and the next
   chalky rise in the dusty highway.

   Another day's sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel
   between himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find
   that the foreign air was lighter to breathe than the air of England.

   On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered
   his equanimity, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building
   as he rode along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in
   hand. All day long he was running towers up, taking towers down, adding
   a wing here, putting on a battlement there, looking to the walls,
   strengthening the defences, giving ornamental touches to the interior,
   making in all respects a superb castle of it. His preoccupied face so
   clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged, that every cripple
   at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered tin-box in
   at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in the
   name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well
   what work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it
   himself, though he had made that English traveller the subject of a
   special physiognomical treatise.

   Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled
   much about the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and
   particularly the jewellers' windows. Ultimately, he went into the most
   famous jeweller's, and said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady.

   It was a charming little woman to whom he said it--a sprightly little
   woman, dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet bower
   to attend upon him, from posting up some dainty little books of account
   which one could hardly suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles
   more commercial than kisses, at a dainty little shining desk which
   looked in itself like a sweetmeat.

   For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did
   Monsieur desire? A love-gift?

   Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was
   always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some?

   Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted to show
   him many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness
   to observe that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial gifts.
   For example, these ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to
   correspond, were what one called a love-gift. These brooches and these
   rings, of a beauty so gracious and celestial, were what one called, with
   the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts.

   Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to
   purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with
   the nuptial offering?

   Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her
   two little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that
   would be a special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with
   gifts would find them irresistible.

   Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little
   woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of
   each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel
   afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle
   now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame.

   Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle
   exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles.
   Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling
   asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the
   air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What
   time the Courier in the rumble, smoking Young John's best cigars, left
   a little thread of thin light smoke behind--perhaps as _he_ built a
   castle or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit's money.

   Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as
   strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit's castle.
   Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless
   building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor
   were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay
   of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle
   were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of
   Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could, through
   the filth that festered on the way.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Merdle has a farewell dinner for Dorrit, after which he walks him out to his carriage. This is high honor. Dorrit says good-bye to Fanny, praises her awesomeness, and wishes that Amy were more like her sister. As Dorrit goes back to his hotel, he sees Young John Chivery waiting for him. The servants say that Chivery claims to know Dorrit and that he wants to see him. Dorrit calmly asks him upstairs, closes the door, and then... scares the living daylights out of him by grabbing his lapel and demanding to know what he's doing there. Poor John holds out some cigars, like in the old days, and Dorrit loses it even more. Then, seeing John's horrified face, Dorrit calms down, cries a little bit, and tries to smooth things over. John really just wanted to say hello and ask how Amy is. Without any kind of ulterior motives or anything - as he says, "in my poor way, I am too proud to" have any kind of secret meaning . Now Dorrit feels terrible and apologizes, but John looks traumatized. Dorrit asks about the Chiverys and also about the prisoners. Then he writes a check for them. As John is leaving, Dorrit listens at the door to make sure he's not going to tell anyone anything. Wow, paranoid much? The next morning Dorrit starts off for Italy and the farther he gets from London the better he feels. He starts daydreaming and imagining things. In Paris he goes to a jeweler and asks to see something he could give a lady as a present. The saleswoman asks if he wants a love gift or an engagement gift. He thinks about it and decides to buy both. Then back to the carriage and more daydreaming.


prompt:
Chapter: The sun had gone down full four hours, and it was later than most
travellers would like it to be for finding themselves outside the walls
of Rome, when Mr Dorrit's carriage, still on its last wearisome
stage, rattled over the solitary Campagna. The savage herdsmen and
the fierce-looking peasants who had chequered the way while the light
lasted, had all gone down with the sun, and left the wilderness
blank. At some turns of the road, a pale flare on the horizon, like an
exhalation from the ruin-sown land, showed that the city was yet far
off; but this poor relief was rare and short-lived. The carriage dipped
down again into a hollow of the black dry sea, and for a long time there
was nothing visible save its petrified swell and the gloomy sky.

Mr Dorrit, though he had his castle-building to engage his mind, could
not be quite easy in that desolate place. He was far more curious, in
every swerve of the carriage, and every cry of the postilions, than he
had been since he quitted London. The valet on the box evidently quaked.
The Courier in the rumble was not altogether comfortable in his mind. As
often as Mr Dorrit let down the glass and looked back at him (which was
        very often), he saw him smoking John Chivery out, it is true, but still
generally standing up the while and looking about him, like a man who
had his suspicions, and kept upon his guard. Then would Mr Dorrit,
    pulling up the glass again, reflect that those postilions were
    cut-throat looking fellows, and that he would have done better to have
    slept at Civita Vecchia, and have started betimes in the morning. But,
    for all this, he worked at his castle in the intervals.

    And now, fragments of ruinous enclosure, yawning window-gap and crazy
    wall, deserted houses, leaking wells, broken water-tanks, spectral
    cypress-trees, patches of tangled vine, and the changing of the track to
    a long, irregular, disordered lane where everything was crumbling away,
    from the unsightly buildings to the jolting road--now, these objects
    showed that they were nearing Rome. And now, a sudden twist and stoppage
    of the carriage inspired Mr Dorrit with the mistrust that the brigand
    moment was come for twisting him into a ditch and robbing him; until,
    letting down the glass again and looking out, he perceived himself
    assailed by nothing worse than a funeral procession, which came
    mechanically chaunting by, with an indistinct show of dirty vestments,
    lurid torches, swinging censers, and a great cross borne before a
    priest. He was an ugly priest by torchlight; of a lowering aspect, with
    an overhanging brow; and as his eyes met those of Mr Dorrit, looking
    bareheaded out of the carriage, his lips, moving as they chaunted,
    seemed to threaten that important traveller; likewise the action of
    his hand, which was in fact his manner of returning the traveller's
    salutation, seemed to come in aid of that menace. So thought Mr Dorrit,
    made fanciful by the weariness of building and travelling, as the priest
    drifted past him, and the procession straggled away, taking its dead
    along with it. Upon their so-different way went Mr Dorrit's company too;
    and soon, with their coach load of luxuries from the two great capitals
    of Europe, they were (like the Goths reversed) beating at the gates of
    Rome.

    Mr Dorrit was not expected by his own people that night. He had been;
    but they had given him up until to-morrow, not doubting that it was
    later than he would care, in those parts, to be out. Thus, when his
    equipage stopped at his own gate, no one but the porter appeared to
    receive him. Was Miss Dorrit from home? he asked. No. She was within.
    Good, said Mr Dorrit to the assembling servants; let them keep where
    they were; let them help to unload the carriage; he would find Miss
    Dorrit for himself.

    So he went up his grand staircase, slowly, and tired, and looked into
    various chambers which were empty, until he saw a light in a small
    ante-room. It was a curtained nook, like a tent, within two other rooms;
    and it looked warm and bright in colour, as he approached it through the
    dark avenue they made.

    There was a draped doorway, but no door; and as he stopped here, looking
    in unseen, he felt a pang. Surely not like jealousy? For why like
    jealousy? There was only his daughter and his brother there: he, with
    his chair drawn to the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the evening wood
    fire; she seated at a little table, busied with some embroidery work.
    Allowing for the great difference in the still-life of the picture, the
    figures were much the same as of old; his brother being sufficiently
    like himself to represent himself, for a moment, in the composition.
    So had he sat many a night, over a coal fire far away; so had she sat,
    devoted to him. Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous of in the old
    miserable poverty. Whence, then, the pang in his heart?

    'Do you know, uncle, I think you are growing young again?'

    Her uncle shook his head and said, 'Since when, my dear; since when?'

    'I think,' returned Little Dorrit, plying her needle, 'that you have
    been growing younger for weeks past. So cheerful, uncle, and so ready,
    and so interested.'

    'My dear child--all you.'

    'All me, uncle!'

    'Yes, yes. You have done me a world of good. You have been so
    considerate of me, and so tender with me, and so delicate in trying to
    hide your attentions from me, that I--well, well, well! It's treasured
    up, my darling, treasured up.'

    'There is nothing in it but your own fresh fancy, uncle,' said Little
    Dorrit, cheerfully.

    'Well, well, well!' murmured the old man. 'Thank God!'

    She paused for an instant in her work to look at him, and her look
    revived that former pain in her father's breast; in his poor weak
    breast, so full of contradictions, vacillations, inconsistencies, the
    little peevish perplexities of this ignorant life, mists which the
    morning without a night only can clear away.

    'I have been freer with you, you see, my dove,' said the old man, 'since
    we have been alone. I say, alone, for I don't count Mrs General; I
    don't care for her; she has nothing to do with me. But I know Fanny was
    impatient of me. And I don't wonder at it, or complain of it, for I am
    sensible that I must be in the way, though I try to keep out of it as
    well as I can. I know I am not fit company for our company. My brother
    William,' said the old man admiringly, 'is fit company for monarchs;
    but not so your uncle, my dear. Frederick Dorrit is no credit to William
    Dorrit, and he knows it quite well. Ah! Why, here's your father, Amy!
    My dear William, welcome back! My beloved brother, I am rejoiced to see
    you!'

    (Turning his head in speaking, he had caught sight of him as he stood in
     the doorway.)

    Little Dorrit with a cry of pleasure put her arms about her father's
    neck, and kissed him again and again. Her father was a little impatient,
    and a little querulous. 'I am glad to find you at last, Amy,' he said.
    'Ha. Really I am glad to find--hum--any one to receive me at last.
    I appear to have been--ha--so little expected, that upon my word
    I began--ha hum--to think it might be right to offer an apology
    for--ha--taking the liberty of coming back at all.'

    'It was so late, my dear William,' said his brother, 'that we had given
    you up for to-night.'

    'I am stronger than you, dear Frederick,' returned his brother with an
    elaboration of fraternity in which there was severity; 'and I hope I can
    travel without detriment at--ha--any hour I choose.'

    'Surely, surely,' returned the other, with a misgiving that he had given
    offence. 'Surely, William.'

    'Thank you, Amy,' pursued Mr Dorrit, as she helped him to put off his
    wrappers. 'I can do it without assistance. I--ha--need not trouble you,
    Amy. Could I have a morsel of bread and a glass of wine, or--hum--would
    it cause too much inconvenience?'

    'Dear father, you shall have supper in a very few minutes.'

    'Thank you, my love,' said Mr Dorrit, with a reproachful frost upon him;
    'I--ha--am afraid I am causing inconvenience. Hum. Mrs General pretty
    well?'

    'Mrs General complained of a headache, and of being fatigued; and so,
    when we gave you up, she went to bed, dear.'

    Perhaps Mr Dorrit thought that Mrs General had done well in being
    overcome by the disappointment of his not arriving. At any rate, his
    face relaxed, and he said with obvious satisfaction, 'Extremely sorry to
    hear that Mrs General is not well.'

    During this short dialogue, his daughter had been observant of him, with
    something more than her usual interest. It would seem as though he had
    a changed or worn appearance in her eyes, and he perceived and resented
    it; for he said with renewed peevishness, when he had divested himself
    of his travelling-cloak, and had come to the fire:

    'Amy, what are you looking at? What do you see in me that causes you
    to--ha--concentrate your solicitude on me in that--hum--very particular
    manner?'

    'I did not know it, father; I beg your pardon. It gladdens my eyes to
    see you again; that's all.'

    'Don't say that's all, because--ha--that's not all. You--hum--you
    think,' said Mr Dorrit, with an accusatory emphasis, 'that I am not
    looking well.'

    'I thought you looked a little tired, love.'

    'Then you are mistaken,' said Mr Dorrit. 'Ha, I am _not_ tired. Ha, hum. I
    am very much fresher than I was when I went away.'

    He was so inclined to be angry that she said nothing more in her
    justification, but remained quietly beside him embracing his arm. As
    he stood thus, with his brother on the other side, he fell into a heavy
    doze, of not a minute's duration, and awoke with a start.

    'Frederick,' he said, turning to his brother: 'I recommend you to go to
    bed immediately.'

    'No, William. I'll wait and see you sup.'

    'Frederick,' he retorted, 'I beg you to go to bed. I--ha--make it a
    personal request that you go to bed. You ought to have been in bed long
    ago. You are very feeble.'

    'Hah!' said the old man, who had no wish but to please him. 'Well, well,
    well! I dare say I am.'

    'My dear Frederick,' returned Mr Dorrit, with an astonishing superiority
    to his brother's failing powers, 'there can be no doubt of it. It is
    painful to me to see you so weak. Ha. It distresses me. Hum. I don't
    find you looking at all well. You are not fit for this sort of thing.
    You should be more careful, you should be very careful.'

    'Shall I go to bed?' asked Frederick.

    'Dear Frederick,' said Mr Dorrit, 'do, I adjure you! Good night,
    brother. I hope you will be stronger to-morrow. I am not at all pleased
    with your looks. Good night, dear fellow.' After dismissing his brother
    in this gracious way, he fell into a doze again before the old man was
    well out of the room: and he would have stumbled forward upon the logs,
    but for his daughter's restraining hold.

    'Your uncle wanders very much, Amy,' he said, when he was thus roused.
    'He is less--ha--coherent, and his conversation is more--hum--broken,
    than I have--ha, hum--ever known. Has he had any illness since I have
    been gone?'

    'No, father.'

    'You--ha--see a great change in him, Amy?'

    'I have not observed it, dear.'

    'Greatly broken,' said Mr Dorrit. 'Greatly broken. My poor,
    affectionate, failing Frederick! Ha. Even taking into account what he
    was before, he is--hum--sadly broken!'

    His supper, which was brought to him there, and spread upon the little
    table where he had seen her working, diverted his attention. She sat at
    his side as in the days that were gone, for the first time since those
    days ended. They were alone, and she helped him to his meat and poured
    out his drink for him, as she had been used to do in the prison. All
    this happened now, for the first time since their accession to wealth.
    She was afraid to look at him much, after the offence he had taken; but
    she noticed two occasions in the course of his meal, when he all of a
    sudden looked at her, and looked about him, as if the association were
    so strong that he needed assurance from his sense of sight that they
    were not in the old prison-room. Both times, he put his hand to his head
    as if he missed his old black cap--though it had been ignominiously
    given away in the Marshalsea, and had never got free to that hour, but
    still hovered about the yards on the head of his successor.

    He took very little supper, but was a long time over it, and often
    reverted to his brother's declining state. Though he expressed the
    greatest pity for him, he was almost bitter upon him. He said that poor
    Frederick--ha hum--drivelled. There was no other word to express it;
    drivelled. Poor fellow! It was melancholy to reflect what Amy must have
    undergone from the excessive tediousness of his Society--wandering and
    babbling on, poor dear estimable creature, wandering and babbling on--if
    it had not been for the relief she had had in Mrs General.
    Extremely sorry, he then repeated with his former satisfaction, that
    that--ha--superior woman was poorly.

    Little Dorrit, in her watchful love, would have remembered the lightest
    thing he said or did that night, though she had had no subsequent reason
    to recall that night. She always remembered that, when he looked about
    him under the strong influence of the old association, he tried to
    keep it out of her mind, and perhaps out of his own too, by immediately
    expatiating on the great riches and great company that had encompassed
    him in his absence, and on the lofty position he and his family had to
    sustain. Nor did she fail to recall that there were two under-currents,
    side by side, pervading all his discourse and all his manner; one
    showing her how well he had got on without her, and how independent
    he was of her; the other, in a fitful and unintelligible way almost
    complaining of her, as if it had been possible that she had neglected
    him while he was away.

    His telling her of the glorious state that Mr Merdle kept, and of the
    court that bowed before him, naturally brought him to Mrs Merdle. So
    naturally indeed, that although there was an unusual want of sequence in
    the greater part of his remarks, he passed to her at once, and asked how
    she was.

    'She is very well. She is going away next week.'

    'Home?' asked Mr Dorrit.

    'After a few weeks' stay upon the road.'

    'She will be a vast loss here,' said Mr Dorrit. 'A vast--ha--acquisition
    at home. To Fanny, and to--hum--the rest of the--ha--great world.'

    Little Dorrit thought of the competition that was to be entered upon,
    and assented very softly.

    'Mrs Merdle is going to have a great farewell Assembly, dear, and a
    dinner before it. She has been expressing her anxiety that you should
    return in time. She has invited both you and me to her dinner.'

    'She is--ha--very kind. When is the day?'

    'The day after to-morrow.'

    'Write round in the morning, and say that I have returned, and
    shall--hum--be delighted.'

    'May I walk with you up the stairs to your room, dear?'

    'No!' he answered, looking angrily round; for he was moving away, as if
    forgetful of leave-taking. 'You may not, Amy. I want no help. I am your
    father, not your infirm uncle!' He checked himself, as abruptly as he
    had broken into this reply, and said, 'You have not kissed me, Amy. Good
    night, my dear! We must marry--ha--we must marry _you_, now.' With that
    he went, more slowly and more tired, up the staircase to his rooms, and,
    almost as soon as he got there, dismissed his valet. His next care was
    to look about him for his Paris purchases, and, after opening their
    cases and carefully surveying them, to put them away under lock and
    key. After that, what with dozing and what with castle-building, he lost
    himself for a long time, so that there was a touch of morning on the
    eastward rim of the desolate Campagna when he crept to bed.

    Mrs General sent up her compliments in good time next day, and hoped
    he had rested well after this fatiguing journey. He sent down his
    compliments, and begged to inform Mrs General that he had rested very
    well indeed, and was in high condition. Nevertheless, he did not come
    forth from his own rooms until late in the afternoon; and, although he
    then caused himself to be magnificently arrayed for a drive with
    Mrs General and his daughter, his appearance was scarcely up to his
    description of himself.

    As the family had no visitors that day, its four members dined alone
    together. He conducted Mrs General to the seat at his right hand with
    immense ceremony; and Little Dorrit could not but notice as she followed
    with her uncle, both that he was again elaborately dressed, and that his
    manner towards Mrs General was very particular. The perfect formation of
    that accomplished lady's surface rendered it difficult to displace an
    atom of its genteel glaze, but Little Dorrit thought she descried a
    slight thaw of triumph in a corner of her frosty eye.

    Notwithstanding what may be called in these pages the Pruney and
    Prismatic nature of the family banquet, Mr Dorrit several times fell
    asleep while it was in progress. His fits of dozing were as sudden as
    they had been overnight, and were as short and profound. When the first
    of these slumberings seized him, Mrs General looked almost amazed: but,
    on each recurrence of the symptoms, she told her polite beads, Papa,
    Potatoes, Poultry, Prunes, and Prism; and, by dint of going through that
    infallible performance very slowly, appeared to finish her rosary at
    about the same time as Mr Dorrit started from his sleep.

    He was again painfully aware of a somnolent tendency in Frederick (which
            had no existence out of his own imagination), and after dinner, when
    Frederick had withdrawn, privately apologised to Mrs General for the
    poor man. 'The most estimable and affectionate of brothers,' he said,
    'but--ha, hum--broken up altogether. Unhappily, declining fast.'

    'Mr Frederick, sir,' quoth Mrs General, 'is habitually absent and
    drooping, but let us hope it is not so bad as that.'

    Mr Dorrit, however, was determined not to let him off. 'Fast declining,
    madam. A wreck. A ruin. Mouldering away before our eyes. Hum. Good
    Frederick!'

    'You left Mrs Sparkler quite well and happy, I trust?' said Mrs General,
    after heaving a cool sigh for Frederick.

    'Surrounded,' replied Mr Dorrit, 'by--ha--all that can charm the taste,
    and--hum--elevate the mind. Happy, my dear madam, in a--hum--husband.'

    Mrs General was a little fluttered; seeming delicately to put the word
    away with her gloves, as if there were no knowing what it might lead to.

    'Fanny,' Mr Dorrit continued. 'Fanny, Mrs General, has high
    qualities. Ha. Ambition--hum--purpose, consciousness of--ha--position,
    determination to support that position--ha, hum--grace, beauty, and
    native nobility.'

    'No doubt,' said Mrs General (with a little extra stiffness).

    'Combined with these qualities, madam,' said Mr Dorrit, 'Fanny
    has--ha--manifested one blemish which has made me--hum--made me uneasy,
    and--ha--I must add, angry; but which I trust may now be considered
    at an end, even as to herself, and which is undoubtedly at an end as
    to--ha--others.'

    'To what, Mr Dorrit,' returned Mrs General, with her gloves again
    somewhat excited, 'can you allude? I am at a loss to--'

    'Do not say that, my dear madam,' interrupted Mr Dorrit.

    Mrs General's voice, as it died away, pronounced the words, 'at a loss
    to imagine.'

    After which Mr Dorrit was seized with a doze for about a minute, out of
    which he sprang with spasmodic nimbleness.

    'I refer, Mrs General, to that--ha--strong spirit of opposition,
    or--hum--I might say--ha--jealousy in Fanny, which has occasionally
    risen against the--ha--sense I entertain of--hum--the claims of--ha--the
    lady with whom I have now the honour of communing.'

    'Mr Dorrit,' returned Mrs General, 'is ever but too obliging, ever but
    too appreciative. If there have been moments when I have imagined that
    Miss Dorrit has indeed resented the favourable opinion Mr Dorrit has
    formed of my services, I have found, in that only too high opinion, my
    consolation and recompense.'

    'Opinion of your services, madam?' said Mr Dorrit.

    'Of,' Mrs General repeated, in an elegantly impressive manner, 'my
    services.'

    'Of your services alone, dear madam?' said Mr Dorrit.

    'I presume,' retorted Mrs General, in her former impressive manner, 'of
    my services alone. For, to what else,' said Mrs General, with a slightly
    interrogative action of her gloves, 'could I impute--'

    'To--ha--yourself, Mrs General. Ha, hum. To yourself and your merits,'
    was Mr Dorrit's rejoinder.

    'Mr Dorrit will pardon me,' said Mrs General, 'if I remark that this
    is not a time or place for the pursuit of the present conversation.
    Mr Dorrit will excuse me if I remind him that Miss Dorrit is in the
    adjoining room, and is visible to myself while I utter her name. Mr
    Dorrit will forgive me if I observe that I am agitated, and that I find
    there are moments when weaknesses I supposed myself to have subdued,
    return with redoubled power. Mr Dorrit will allow me to withdraw.'

    'Hum. Perhaps we may resume this--ha--interesting conversation,' said
    Mr Dorrit, 'at another time; unless it should be, what I hope it is
    not--hum--in any way disagreeable to--ah--Mrs General.'

    'Mr Dorrit,' said Mrs General, casting down her eyes as she rose with a
    bend, 'must ever claim my homage and obedience.'

    Mrs General then took herself off in a stately way, and not with that
    amount of trepidation upon her which might have been expected in a less
    remarkable woman. Mr Dorrit, who had conducted his part of the dialogue
    with a certain majestic and admiring condescension--much as some people
    may be seen to conduct themselves in Church, and to perform their part
    in the service--appeared, on the whole, very well satisfied with himself
    and with Mrs General too. On the return of that lady to tea, she had
    touched herself up with a little powder and pomatum, and was not without
    moral enchantment likewise: the latter showing itself in much sweet
    patronage of manner towards Miss Dorrit, and in an air of as tender
    interest in Mr Dorrit as was consistent with rigid propriety. At the
    close of the evening, when she rose to retire, Mr Dorrit took her by the
    hand as if he were going to lead her out into the Piazza of the people
    to walk a minuet by moonlight, and with great solemnity conducted her to
    the room door, where he raised her knuckles to his lips. Having parted
    from her with what may be conjectured to have been a rather bony kiss of
    a cosmetic flavour, he gave his daughter his blessing, graciously. And
    having thus hinted that there was something remarkable in the wind, he
    again went to bed.

    He remained in the seclusion of his own chamber next morning; but, early
    in the afternoon, sent down his best compliments to Mrs General, by Mr
    Tinkler, and begged she would accompany Miss Dorrit on an airing
    without him. His daughter was dressed for Mrs Merdle's dinner before he
    appeared. He then presented himself in a refulgent condition as to his
    attire, but looking indefinably shrunken and old. However, as he was
    plainly determined to be angry with her if she so much as asked him how
    he was, she only ventured to kiss his cheek, before accompanying him to
    Mrs Merdle's with an anxious heart.

    The distance that they had to go was very short, but he was at his
    building work again before the carriage had half traversed it. Mrs
    Merdle received him with great distinction; the bosom was in admirable
    preservation, and on the best terms with itself; the dinner was very
    choice; and the company was very select.

    It was principally English; saving that it comprised the usual French
    Count and the usual Italian Marchese--decorative social milestones,
    always to be found in certain places, and varying very little in
    appearance. The table was long, and the dinner was long; and Little
    Dorrit, overshadowed by a large pair of black whiskers and a large white
    cravat, lost sight of her father altogether, until a servant put a scrap
    of paper in her hand, with a whispered request from Mrs Merdle that she
    would read it directly. Mrs Merdle had written on it in pencil, 'Pray
    come and speak to Mr Dorrit, I doubt if he is well.'

    She was hurrying to him, unobserved, when he got up out of his chair,
    and leaning over the table called to her, supposing her to be still in
    her place:

    'Amy, Amy, my child!'

    The action was so unusual, to say nothing of his strange eager
    appearance and strange eager voice, that it instantaneously caused a
    profound silence.

    'Amy, my dear,' he repeated. 'Will you go and see if Bob is on the
    lock?'

    She was at his side, and touching him, but he still perversely supposed
    her to be in her seat, and called out, still leaning over the table,
    'Amy, Amy. I don't feel quite myself. Ha. I don't know what's the matter
    with me. I particularly wish to see Bob. Ha. Of all the turnkeys, he's
    as much my friend as yours. See if Bob is in the lodge, and beg him to
    come to me.'

    All the guests were now in consternation, and everybody rose.

    'Dear father, I am not there; I am here, by you.'

    'Oh! You are here, Amy! Good. Hum. Good. Ha. Call Bob. If he has been
    relieved, and is not on the lock, tell Mrs Bangham to go and fetch him.'

    She was gently trying to get him away; but he resisted, and would not
    go.

    'I tell you, child,' he said petulantly, 'I can't be got up the narrow
    stairs without Bob. Ha. Send for Bob. Hum. Send for Bob--best of all the
    turnkeys--send for Bob!'

    He looked confusedly about him, and, becoming conscious of the number of
    faces by which he was surrounded, addressed them:

    'Ladies and gentlemen, the duty--ha--devolves upon me of--hum--welcoming
    you to the Marshalsea! Welcome to the Marshalsea! The space
    is--ha--limited--limited--the parade might be wider; but you will
    find it apparently grow larger after a time--a time, ladies and
    gentlemen--and the air is, all things considered, very good. It blows
    over the--ha--Surrey hills. Blows over the Surrey hills. This is the
    Snuggery. Hum. Supported by a small subscription of the--ha--Collegiate
    body. In return for which--hot water--general kitchen--and little
    domestic advantages. Those who are habituated to the--ha--Marshalsea,
    are pleased to call me its father. I am accustomed to be complimented by
    strangers as the--ha--Father of the Marshalsea. Certainly, if years of
    residence may establish a claim to so--ha--honourable a title, I may
    accept the--hum--conferred distinction. My child, ladies and gentlemen.
    My daughter. Born here!'

    She was not ashamed of it, or ashamed of him. She was pale and
    frightened; but she had no other care than to soothe him and get him
    away, for his own dear sake. She was between him and the wondering
    faces, turned round upon his breast with her own face raised to his. He
    held her clasped in his left arm, and between whiles her low voice was
    heard tenderly imploring him to go away with her.

    'Born here,' he repeated, shedding tears. 'Bred here. Ladies and
    gentlemen, my daughter. Child of an unfortunate father, but--ha--always
    a gentleman. Poor, no doubt, but--hum--proud. Always proud. It
    has become a--hum--not infrequent custom for my--ha--personal
    admirers--personal admirers solely--to be pleased to express
    their desire to acknowledge my semi-official position here,
    by offering--ha--little tributes, which usually take the form
    of--ha--voluntary recognitions of my humble endeavours to--hum--to
    uphold a Tone here--a Tone--I beg it to be understood that I do not
    consider myself compromised. Ha. Not compromised. Ha. Not a beggar. No;
    I repudiate the title! At the same time far be it from me to--hum--to
    put upon the fine feelings by which my partial friends are actuated,
    the slight of scrupling to admit that those offerings are--hum--highly
    acceptable. On the contrary, they are most acceptable. In my child's
    name, if not in my own, I make the admission in the fullest manner, at
    the same time reserving--ha--shall I say my personal dignity? Ladies and
    gentlemen, God bless you all!'

    By this time, the exceeding mortification undergone by the Bosom had
    occasioned the withdrawal of the greater part of the company into other
    rooms. The few who had lingered thus long followed the rest, and Little
    Dorrit and her father were left to the servants and themselves. Dearest
    and most precious to her, he would come with her now, would he not? He
    replied to her fervid entreaties, that he would never be able to get up
    the narrow stairs without Bob; where was Bob, would nobody fetch Bob?
    Under pretence of looking for Bob, she got him out against the stream of
    gay company now pouring in for the evening assembly, and got him into a
    coach that had just set down its load, and got him home.

    The broad stairs of his Roman palace were contracted in his failing
    sight to the narrow stairs of his London prison; and he would suffer no
    one but her to touch him, his brother excepted. They got him up to his
    room without help, and laid him down on his bed. And from that hour his
    poor maimed spirit, only remembering the place where it had broken its
    wings, cancelled the dream through which it had since groped, and knew
    of nothing beyond the Marshalsea. When he heard footsteps in the street,
    he took them for the old weary tread in the yards. When the hour came
    for locking up, he supposed all strangers to be excluded for the night.
    When the time for opening came again, he was so anxious to see Bob, that
    they were fain to patch up a narrative how that Bob--many a year dead
    then, gentle turnkey--had taken cold, but hoped to be out to-morrow, or
    the next day, or the next at furthest.

    He fell away into a weakness so extreme that he could not raise his
    hand. But he still protected his brother according to his long usage;
    and would say with some complacency, fifty times a day, when he saw him
    standing by his bed, 'My good Frederick, sit down. You are very feeble
    indeed.'

    They tried him with Mrs General, but he had not the faintest knowledge
    of her. Some injurious suspicion lodged itself in his brain, that she
    wanted to supplant Mrs Bangham, and that she was given to drinking. He
    charged her with it in no measured terms; and was so urgent with his
    daughter to go round to the Marshal and entreat him to turn her out,
    that she was never reproduced after the first failure.

    Saving that he once asked 'if Tip had gone outside?' the remembrance of
    his two children not present seemed to have departed from him. But the
    child who had done so much for him and had been so poorly repaid, was
    never out of his mind. Not that he spared her, or was fearful of her
    being spent by watching and fatigue; he was not more troubled on that
    score than he had usually been. No; he loved her in his old way. They
    were in the jail again, and she tended him, and he had constant need of
    her, and could not turn without her; and he even told her, sometimes,
    that he was content to have undergone a great deal for her sake. As to
    her, she bent over his bed with her quiet face against his, and would
    have laid down her own life to restore him.

    When he had been sinking in this painless way for two or three days, she
    observed him to be troubled by the ticking of his watch--a pompous gold
    watch that made as great a to-do about its going as if nothing else
    went but itself and Time. She suffered it to run down; but he was still
    uneasy, and showed that was not what he wanted. At length he roused
    himself to explain that he wanted money to be raised on this watch. He
    was quite pleased when she pretended to take it away for the purpose,
    and afterwards had a relish for his little tastes of wine and jelly,
    that he had not had before.

    He soon made it plain that this was so; for, in another day or two
    he sent off his sleeve-buttons and finger-rings. He had an amazing
    satisfaction in entrusting her with these errands, and appeared to
    consider it equivalent to making the most methodical and provident
    arrangements. After his trinkets, or such of them as he had been able to
    see about him, were gone, his clothes engaged his attention; and it
    is as likely as not that he was kept alive for some days by the
    satisfaction of sending them, piece by piece, to an imaginary
    pawnbroker's.

    Thus for ten days Little Dorrit bent over his pillow, laying her cheek
    against his. Sometimes she was so worn out that for a few minutes
    they would slumber together. Then she would awake; to recollect with
    fast-flowing silent tears what it was that touched her face, and to see,
    stealing over the cherished face upon the pillow, a deeper shadow than
    the shadow of the Marshalsea Wall.

    Quietly, quietly, all the lines of the plan of the great Castle
    melted one after another. Quietly, quietly, the ruled and cross-ruled
    countenance on which they were traced, became fair and blank.
    Quietly, quietly, the reflected marks of the prison bars and of the
    zig-zag iron on the wall-top, faded away. Quietly, quietly, the face
    subsided into a far younger likeness of her own than she had ever seen
    under the grey hair, and sank to rest.

    At first her uncle was stark distracted. 'O my brother! O William,
    William! You to go before me; you to go alone; you to go, and I to
    remain! You, so far superior, so distinguished, so noble; I, a poor
    useless creature fit for nothing, and whom no one would have missed!'

    It did her, for the time, the good of having him to think of and to
    succour.

    'Uncle, dear uncle, spare yourself, spare me!'

    The old man was not deaf to the last words. When he did begin to
    restrain himself, it was that he might spare her. He had no care for
    himself; but, with all the remaining power of the honest heart, stunned
    so long and now awaking to be broken, he honoured and blessed her.

    'O God,' he cried, before they left the room, with his wrinkled hands
    clasped over her. 'Thou seest this daughter of my dear dead brother! All
    that I have looked upon, with my half-blind and sinful eyes, Thou hast
    discerned clearly, brightly. Not a hair of her head shall be harmed
    before Thee. Thou wilt uphold her here to her last hour. And I know Thou
    wilt reward her hereafter!'

    They remained in a dim room near, until it was almost midnight, quiet
    and sad together. At times his grief would seek relief in a burst like
    that in which it had found its earliest expression; but, besides that
    his little strength would soon have been unequal to such strains, he
    never failed to recall her words, and to reproach himself and calm
    himself. The only utterance with which he indulged his sorrow, was the
    frequent exclamation that his brother was gone, alone; that they had
    been together in the outset of their lives, that they had fallen into
    misfortune together, that they had kept together through their many
    years of poverty, that they had remained together to that day; and that
    his brother was gone alone, alone!

    They parted, heavy and sorrowful. She would not consent to leave him
    anywhere but in his own room, and she saw him lie down in his clothes
    upon his bed, and covered him with her own hands. Then she sank upon her
    own bed, and fell into a deep sleep: the sleep of exhaustion and
    rest, though not of complete release from a pervading consciousness of
    affliction. Sleep, good Little Dorrit. Sleep through the night!

    It was a moonlight night; but the moon rose late, being long past the
    full. When it was high in the peaceful firmament, it shone through
    half-closed lattice blinds into the solemn room where the stumblings and
    wanderings of a life had so lately ended. Two quiet figures were within
    the room; two figures, equally still and impassive, equally removed
    by an untraversable distance from the teeming earth and all that it
    contains, though soon to lie in it.

    One figure reposed upon the bed. The other, kneeling on the floor,
    drooped over it; the arms easily and peacefully resting on the coverlet;
the face bowed down, so that the lips touched the hand over which with
its last breath it had bent. The two brothers were before their Father;
far beyond the twilight judgment of this world; high above its mists and
obscurities.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Dorrit's carriage arrives home late at night. Along the way he kept thinking the carriage was about to be robbed or he was about to be killed, despite all evidence to the contrary. No one is ready for his return, since it's so late that they assumed he would stay overnight somewhere and come the next day. Dorrit finds Amy and Frederick Dorrit sitting together and gets jealous. Amy is telling Frederick that he seems younger, and her uncle says that it's all due to her. They realize that Dorrit is there and are thrilled to see him. But when Amy asks if he's tired, he gets really mad. He sends Frederick off to bed, saying that he is far too old and feeble to be awake. He suddenly falls asleep for a minute or two. Then he wakes up again with a start and complains about how no one has wanted him to come back. Then he kind of randomly prattles on about what London was like and asks about Mrs. Merdle. Amy tells him that Mrs. Merdle is throwing a grand farewell dinner since she is returning to London, and they are of course invited. The next morning Dorrit is extra nice to Mrs. General, but he keeps weirdly falling asleep during breakfast. After breakfast Dorrit starts in on some sweet nothings, and after a little while, Mrs. General says that they'll continue this another time. She's doing a fake hard-to-get act. Dorrit is clearly not OK but keeps getting angry any time anyone brings it up. The day of the party, Dorrit puts himself together but looks old and worn. Amy loses him in the crowd and suddenly gets a note from Mrs. Merdle saying that he is not well. When she finds him, Dorrit has totally snapped. He's talking to Mrs. Merdle's guests as though he were still in prison at the Marshalsea and is giving a tour of it. He is totally confused and wants to see a turnkey who has been dead many years. Finally Amy gets him out of there. He never regains his mental faculties. Dorrit continues to think that it's long ago and he's in prison. He doesn't recognize Mrs. General. He only wants Amy. At one point he starts giving her his jewelry and clothes to take to a pawnshop, which she pretends to do. And then, at long last, he dies. What a totally depressing end. His brother Frederick is overcome with grief and cannot believe that he has outlived him. Finally Amy goes to bed, for the first time in ten days. Frederick stays behind to pray and cry over the dead body. He dies in this position a few minutes later.