prompt:
Chapter: Mr Henry Gowan and the dog were established frequenters of the cottage,
   and the day was fixed for the wedding. There was to be a convocation of
   Barnacles on the occasion, in order that that very high and very large
   family might shed as much lustre on the marriage as so dim an event was
   capable of receiving.

   To have got the whole Barnacle family together would have been
   impossible for two reasons. Firstly, because no building could have held
   all the members and connections of that illustrious house. Secondly,
   because wherever there was a square yard of ground in British occupation
   under the sun or moon, with a public post upon it, sticking to that post
   was a Barnacle. No intrepid navigator could plant a flag-staff upon any
   spot of earth, and take possession of it in the British name, but
   to that spot of earth, so soon as the discovery was known, the
   Circumlocution Office sent out a Barnacle and a despatch-box. Thus the
   Barnacles were all over the world, in every direction--despatch-boxing
   the compass.

   But, while the so-potent art of Prospero himself would have failed in
   summoning the Barnacles from every speck of ocean and dry land on
   which there was nothing (except mischief) to be done and anything to be
   pocketed, it was perfectly feasible to assemble a good many Barnacles.
   This Mrs Gowan applied herself to do; calling on Mr Meagles frequently
    with new additions to the list, and holding conferences with that
gentleman when he was not engaged (as he generally was at this period)
    in examining and paying the debts of his future son-in-law, in the
    apartment of scales and scoop.

    One marriage guest there was, in reference to whose presence Mr Meagles
    felt a nearer interest and concern than in the attendance of the most
    elevated Barnacle expected; though he was far from insensible of the
    honour of having such company. This guest was Clennam. But Clennam had
    made a promise he held sacred, among the trees that summer night, and,
    in the chivalry of his heart, regarded it as binding him to many implied
    obligations. In forgetfulness of himself, and delicate service to her on
    all occasions, he was never to fail; to begin it, he answered Mr Meagles
    cheerfully, 'I shall come, of course.'

    His partner, Daniel Doyce, was something of a stumbling-block in Mr
    Meagles's way, the worthy gentleman being not at all clear in his own
    anxious mind but that the mingling of Daniel with official Barnacleism
    might produce some explosive combination, even at a marriage breakfast.
    The national offender, however, lightened him of his uneasiness by
    coming down to Twickenham to represent that he begged, with the freedom
    of an old friend, and as a favour to one, that he might not be invited.
    'For,' said he, 'as my business with this set of gentlemen was to do a
    public duty and a public service, and as their business with me was to
    prevent it by wearing my soul out, I think we had better not eat and
    drink together with a show of being of one mind.' Mr Meagles was much
    amused by his friend's oddity; and patronised him with a more protecting
    air of allowance than usual, when he rejoined: 'Well, well, Dan, you
    shall have your own crotchety way.'

    To Mr Henry Gowan, as the time approached, Clennam tried to convey
    by all quiet and unpretending means, that he was frankly and
    disinterestedly desirous of tendering him any friendship he would
    accept. Mr Gowan treated him in return with his usual ease, and with his
    usual show of confidence, which was no confidence at all.

    'You see, Clennam,' he happened to remark in the course of conversation
    one day, when they were walking near the Cottage within a week of the
    marriage, 'I am a disappointed man. That you know already.'

    'Upon my word,' said Clennam, a little embarrassed, 'I scarcely know
    how.'

    'Why,' returned Gowan, 'I belong to a clan, or a clique, or a family, or
    a connection, or whatever you like to call it, that might have provided
    for me in any one of fifty ways, and that took it into its head not to
    do it at all. So here I am, a poor devil of an artist.'

    Clennam was beginning, 'But on the other hand--' when Gowan took him up.

    'Yes, yes, I know. I have the good fortune of being beloved by a
    beautiful and charming girl whom I love with all my heart.'

    ('Is there much of it?' Clennam thought. And as he thought it, felt
     ashamed of himself.)

    'And of finding a father-in-law who is a capital fellow and a liberal
    good old boy. Still, I had other prospects washed and combed into my
    childish head when it was washed and combed for me, and I took them to
    a public school when I washed and combed it for myself, and I am here
    without them, and thus I am a disappointed man.'

    Clennam thought (and as he thought it, again felt ashamed of himself),
    was this notion of being disappointed in life, an assertion of station
    which the bridegroom brought into the family as his property, having
    already carried it detrimentally into his pursuit? And was it a hopeful
    or a promising thing anywhere?

    'Not bitterly disappointed, I think,' he said aloud.

    'Hang it, no; not bitterly,' laughed Gowan. 'My people are not worth
    that--though they are charming fellows, and I have the greatest
    affection for them. Besides, it's pleasant to show them that I can do
    without them, and that they may all go to the Devil. And besides, again,
    most men are disappointed in life, somehow or other, and influenced by
    their disappointment. But it's a dear good world, and I love it!'

    'It lies fair before you now,' said Arthur.

    'Fair as this summer river,' cried the other, with enthusiasm, 'and by
    Jove I glow with admiration of it, and with ardour to run a race in it.
    It's the best of old worlds! And my calling! The best of old callings,
    isn't it?'

    'Full of interest and ambition, I conceive,' said Clennam.

    'And imposition,' added Gowan, laughing; 'we won't leave out the
    imposition. I hope I may not break down in that; but there, my being
    a disappointed man may show itself. I may not be able to face it out
    gravely enough. Between you and me, I think there is some danger of my
    being just enough soured not to be able to do that.'

    'To do what?' asked Clennam.

    'To keep it up. To help myself in my turn, as the man before me helps
    himself in his, and pass the bottle of smoke. To keep up the pretence
    as to labour, and study, and patience, and being devoted to my art, and
    giving up many solitary days to it, and abandoning many pleasures for
    it, and living in it, and all the rest of it--in short, to pass the
    bottle of smoke according to rule.'

    'But it is well for a man to respect his own vocation, whatever it is;
    and to think himself bound to uphold it, and to claim for it the respect
    it deserves; is it not?' Arthur reasoned. 'And your vocation, Gowan,
    may really demand this suit and service. I confess I should have thought
    that all Art did.'

    'What a good fellow you are, Clennam!' exclaimed the other, stopping
    to look at him, as if with irrepressible admiration. 'What a capital
    fellow! _You_ have never been disappointed. That's easy to see.'

    It would have been so cruel if he had meant it, that Clennam firmly
    resolved to believe he did not mean it. Gowan, without pausing, laid his
    hand upon his shoulder, and laughingly and lightly went on:

    'Clennam, I don't like to dispel your generous visions, and I would give
    any money (if I had any), to live in such a rose-coloured mist. But what
    I do in my trade, I do to sell. What all we fellows do, we do to
    sell. If we didn't want to sell it for the most we can get for it, we
    shouldn't do it. Being work, it has to be done; but it's easily enough
    done. All the rest is hocus-pocus. Now here's one of the advantages, or
    disadvantages, of knowing a disappointed man. You hear the truth.'

    Whatever he had heard, and whether it deserved that name or another, it
    sank into Clennam's mind. It so took root there, that he began to fear
    Henry Gowan would always be a trouble to him, and that so far he had
    gained little or nothing from the dismissal of Nobody, with all his
    inconsistencies, anxieties, and contradictions. He found a contest still
    always going on in his breast between his promise to keep Gowan in
    none but good aspects before the mind of Mr Meagles, and his enforced
    observation of Gowan in aspects that had no good in them. Nor could he
    quite support his own conscientious nature against misgivings that he
    distorted and discoloured himself, by reminding himself that he never
    sought those discoveries, and that he would have avoided them with
    willingness and great relief. For he never could forget what he had
    been; and he knew that he had once disliked Gowan for no better reason
    than that he had come in his way.

    Harassed by these thoughts, he now began to wish the marriage over,
    Gowan and his young wife gone, and himself left to fulfil his promise,
    and discharge the generous function he had accepted. This last week was,
    in truth, an uneasy interval for the whole house. Before Pet, or before
    Gowan, Mr Meagles was radiant; but Clennam had more than once found him
    alone, with his view of the scales and scoop much blurred, and had often
    seen him look after the lovers, in the garden or elsewhere when he was
    not seen by them, with the old clouded face on which Gowan had fallen
    like a shadow. In the arrangement of the house for the great occasion,
    many little reminders of the old travels of the father and mother
    and daughter had to be disturbed and passed from hand to hand; and
    sometimes, in the midst of these mute witnesses, to the life they had
    had together, even Pet herself would yield to lamenting and weeping.
    Mrs Meagles, the blithest and busiest of mothers, went about singing
    and cheering everybody; but she, honest soul, had her flights into store
    rooms, where she would cry until her eyes were red, and would then
    come out, attributing that appearance to pickled onions and pepper, and
    singing clearer than ever. Mrs Tickit, finding no balsam for a wounded
    mind in Buchan's Domestic Medicine, suffered greatly from low spirits,
    and from moving recollections of Minnie's infancy. When the latter was
    powerful with her, she usually sent up secret messages importing
    that she was not in parlour condition as to her attire, and that she
    solicited a sight of 'her child' in the kitchen; there, she would bless
    her child's face, and bless her child's heart, and hug her child, in a
    medley of tears and congratulations, chopping-boards, rolling-pins, and
    pie-crust, with the tenderness of an old attached servant, which is a
    very pretty tenderness indeed.

    But all days come that are to be; and the marriage-day was to be, and it
    came; and with it came all the Barnacles who were bidden to the feast.

    There was Mr Tite Barnacle, from the Circumlocution Office, and Mews
    Street, Grosvenor Square, with the expensive Mrs Tite Barnacle _nee_
    Stiltstalking, who made the Quarter Days so long in coming, and the
    three expensive Miss Tite Barnacles, double-loaded with accomplishments
    and ready to go off, and yet not going off with the sharpness of flash
    and bang that might have been expected, but rather hanging fire. There
    was Barnacle junior, also from the Circumlocution Office, leaving the
    Tonnage of the country, which he was somehow supposed to take under
    his protection, to look after itself, and, sooth to say, not at all
    impairing the efficiency of its protection by leaving it alone. There
    was the engaging Young Barnacle, deriving from the sprightly side of the
    family, also from the Circumlocution Office, gaily and agreeably helping
    the occasion along, and treating it, in his sparkling way, as one of the
    official forms and fees of the Church Department of How not to do it.
    There were three other Young Barnacles from three other offices, insipid
    to all the senses, and terribly in want of seasoning, doing the marriage
    as they would have 'done' the Nile, Old Rome, the new singer, or
    Jerusalem.

    But there was greater game than this. There was Lord Decimus Tite
    Barnacle himself, in the odour of Circumlocution--with the very smell of
    Despatch-Boxes upon him. Yes, there was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, who
    had risen to official heights on the wings of one indignant idea, and
    that was, My Lords, that I am yet to be told that it behoves a Minister
    of this free country to set bounds to the philanthropy, to cramp the
    charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the enterprise, to
    damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. That was, in other
    words, that this great statesman was always yet to be told that it
    behoved the Pilot of the ship to do anything but prosper in the private
    loaf and fish trade ashore, the crew being able, by dint of hard
    pumping, to keep the ship above water without him. On this sublime
    discovery in the great art How not to do it, Lord Decimus had long
    sustained the highest glory of the Barnacle family; and let any
    ill-advised member of either House but try How to do it by bringing in
    a Bill to do it, that Bill was as good as dead and buried when Lord
    Decimus Tite Barnacle rose up in his place and solemnly said, soaring
    into indignant majesty as the Circumlocution cheering soared around
    him, that he was yet to be told, My Lords, that it behoved him as the
    Minister of this free country, to set bounds to the philanthropy,
    to cramp the charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the
    enterprise, to damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. The
    discovery of this Behoving Machine was the discovery of the political
    perpetual motion. It never wore out, though it was always going round
    and round in all the State Departments.

    And there, with his noble friend and relative Lord Decimus, was
    William Barnacle, who had made the ever-famous coalition with Tudor
    Stiltstalking, and who always kept ready his own particular recipe for
    How not to do it; sometimes tapping the Speaker, and drawing it fresh
    out of him, with a 'First, I will beg you, sir, to inform the House what
    Precedent we have for the course into which the honourable gentleman
    would precipitate us;' sometimes asking the honourable gentleman to
    favour him with his own version of the Precedent; sometimes telling
    the honourable gentleman that he (William Barnacle) would search for a
    Precedent; and oftentimes crushing the honourable gentleman flat on
    the spot by telling him there was no Precedent. But Precedent and
    Precipitate were, under all circumstances, the well-matched pair of
    battle-horses of this able Circumlocutionist. No matter that the unhappy
    honourable gentleman had been trying in vain, for twenty-five years, to
    precipitate William Barnacle into this--William Barnacle still put it to
    the House, and (at second-hand or so) to the country, whether he was to
    be precipitated into this. No matter that it was utterly irreconcilable
    with the nature of things and course of events that the wretched
    honourable gentleman could possibly produce a Precedent for
    this--William Barnacle would nevertheless thank the honourable gentleman
    for that ironical cheer, and would close with him upon that issue, and
    would tell him to his teeth that there Was NO Precedent for this. It
    might perhaps have been objected that the William Barnacle wisdom was
    not high wisdom or the earth it bamboozled would never have been made,
    or, if made in a rash mistake, would have remained blank mud. But
    Precedent and Precipitate together frightened all objection out of most
    people.

    And there, too, was another Barnacle, a lively one, who had leaped
    through twenty places in quick succession, and was always in two or
    three at once, and who was the much-respected inventor of an art
    which he practised with great success and admiration in all Barnacle
    Governments. This was, when he was asked a Parliamentary question on
    any one topic, to return an answer on any other. It had done immense
    service, and brought him into high esteem with the Circumlocution
    Office.

    And there, too, was a sprinkling of less distinguished Parliamentary
    Barnacles, who had not as yet got anything snug, and were going through
    their probation to prove their worthiness. These Barnacles perched upon
    staircases and hid in passages, waiting their orders to make houses
    or not to make houses; and they did all their hearing, and ohing, and
    cheering, and barking, under directions from the heads of the family;
    and they put dummy motions on the paper in the way of other men's
    motions; and they stalled disagreeable subjects off until late in the
    night and late in the session, and then with virtuous patriotism cried
    out that it was too late; and they went down into the country, whenever
    they were sent, and swore that Lord Decimus had revived trade from a
    swoon, and commerce from a fit, and had doubled the harvest of corn,
    quadrupled the harvest of hay, and prevented no end of gold from flying
    out of the Bank. Also these Barnacles were dealt, by the heads of the
    family, like so many cards below the court-cards, to public meetings and
    dinners; where they bore testimony to all sorts of services on the part
    of their noble and honourable relatives, and buttered the Barnacles on
    all sorts of toasts. And they stood, under similar orders, at all sorts
    of elections; and they turned out of their own seats, on the shortest
    notice and the most unreasonable terms, to let in other men; and they
    fetched and carried, and toadied and jobbed, and corrupted, and ate
    heaps of dirt, and were indefatigable in the public service. And there
    was not a list, in all the Circumlocution Office, of places that might
    fall vacant anywhere within half a century, from a lord of the Treasury
    to a Chinese consul, and up again to a governor-general of India, but as
    applicants for such places, the names of some or of every one of these
    hungry and adhesive Barnacles were down.

    It was necessarily but a sprinkling of any class of Barnacles that
    attended the marriage, for there were not two score in all, and what
    is that subtracted from Legion! But the sprinkling was a swarm in the
Twickenham cottage, and filled it. A Barnacle (assisted by a Barnacle)
    married the happy pair, and it behoved Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle
    himself to conduct Mrs Meagles to breakfast.

    The entertainment was not as agreeable and natural as it might have
    been. Mr Meagles, hove down by his good company while he highly
    appreciated it, was not himself. Mrs Gowan was herself, and that did not
    improve him. The fiction that it was not Mr Meagles who had stood in the
    way, but that it was the Family greatness, and that the Family greatness
    had made a concession, and there was now a soothing unanimity, pervaded
    the affair, though it was never openly expressed. Then the Barnacles
    felt that they for their parts would have done with the Meagleses when
    the present patronising occasion was over; and the Meagleses felt the
    same for their parts. Then Gowan asserting his rights as a disappointed
    man who had his grudge against the family, and who, perhaps, had allowed
    his mother to have them there, as much in the hope it might give them
    some annoyance as with any other benevolent object, aired his pencil and
    his poverty ostentatiously before them, and told them he hoped in time
    to settle a crust of bread and cheese on his wife, and that he begged
    such of them as (more fortunate than himself) came in for any good
    thing, and could buy a picture, to please to remember the poor painter.
    Then Lord Decimus, who was a wonder on his own Parliamentary pedestal,
    turned out to be the windiest creature here: proposing happiness to the
    bride and bridegroom in a series of platitudes that would have made the
    hair of any sincere disciple and believer stand on end; and trotting,
    with the complacency of an idiotic elephant, among howling labyrinths of
    sentences which he seemed to take for high roads, and never so much
    as wanted to get out of. Then Mr Tite Barnacle could not but feel that
    there was a person in company, who would have disturbed his life-long
    sitting to Sir Thomas Lawrence in full official character, if such
    disturbance had been possible: while Barnacle junior did, with
    indignation, communicate to two vapid gentlemen, his relatives, that
    there was a feller here, look here, who had come to our Department
    without an appointment and said he wanted to know, you know; and that,
    look here, if he was to break out now, as he might you know (for you
            never could tell what an ungentlemanly Radical of that sort would be up
            to next), and was to say, look here, that he wanted to know this moment,
    you know, that would be jolly; wouldn't it?

    The pleasantest part of the occasion by far, to Clennam, was the
    painfullest. When Mr and Mrs Meagles at last hung about Pet in the room
    with the two pictures (where the company were not), before going with
    her to the threshold which she could never recross to be the old Pet and
    the old delight, nothing could be more natural and simple than the three
    were. Gowan himself was touched, and answered Mr Meagles's 'O Gowan,
    take care of her, take care of her!' with an earnest 'Don't be so
    broken-hearted, sir. By Heaven I will!'

    And so, with the last sobs and last loving words, and a last look to
    Clennam of confidence in his promise, Pet fell back in the carriage,
    and her husband waved his hand, and they were away for Dover; though not
    until the faithful Mrs Tickit, in her silk gown and jet black curls, had
    rushed out from some hiding-place, and thrown both her shoes after
    the carriage: an apparition which occasioned great surprise to the
    distinguished company at the windows.

    The said company being now relieved from further attendance, and the
    chief Barnacles being rather hurried (for they had it in hand just
            then to send a mail or two which was in danger of going straight to its
            destination, beating about the seas like the Flying Dutchman, and to
            arrange with complexity for the stoppage of a good deal of important
            business otherwise in peril of being done), went their several ways;
    with all affability conveying to Mr and Mrs Meagles that general
    assurance that what they had been doing there, they had been doing at a
    sacrifice for Mr and Mrs Meagles's good, which they always conveyed to
    Mr John Bull in their official condescension to that most unfortunate
    creature.

    A miserable blank remained in the house and in the hearts of the father
    and mother and Clennam. Mr Meagles called only one remembrance to his
    aid, that really did him good.

    'It's very gratifying, Arthur,' he said, 'after all, to look back upon.'

    'The past?' said Clennam.

    'Yes--but I mean the company.'

    It had made him much more low and unhappy at the time, but now it really
    did him good. 'It's very gratifying,' he said, often repeating the
    remark in the course of the evening. 'Such high company!'

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

completion: Finally Pet and Gowan's wedding day is here. Mrs. Gowan has done her best to get as many of the fancy members of the Barnacle family to come as possible, in order to play into the whole charade that Gowan is somehow marrying down and that Mrs. Gowan wants to class up the joint. Arthur decides to go, thinking this is what Pet would want. Doyce doesn't want to go because he's worried he and the Barnacles will come to blows. Arthur and Gowan chat. Gowan is bitter that his rich and powerful relatives haven't set him up in any way. This is sort of offensive to Arthur, who says that working for a living is not such a bad thing. Gowan does more of his all-things-are-worthless shtick. Arthur is very worried about what the marriage will be like if Gowan is already this jaded before it even happens. The ceremony goes off OK. The guest list is full of high-ranking members of the Circumlocution Office, along with some low-level ones. The narrator introduces them one by one, with vicious and hilarious bits of satire about the slow, useless, careless, and generally apathetic way government runs. Gowan makes a little speech about how they're going to be very poor. He asks everyone to commission a painting. Mr. and Mrs. Meagles cry and hug Pet, and the married couple is off to honeymoon in Italy. A totally miserable Mr. Meagles is slightly cheered up by the thought that so many highly connected, aristocratic people came to the wedding.


prompt:
Chapter: It was at this time that Mr Pancks, in discharge of his compact with
Clennam, revealed to him the whole of his gipsy story, and told him
Little Dorrit's fortune. Her father was heir-at-law to a great estate
that had long lain unknown of, unclaimed, and accumulating. His right
was now clear, nothing interposed in his way, the Marshalsea gates stood
open, the Marshalsea walls were down, a few flourishes of his pen, and
he was extremely rich.

In his tracking out of the claim to its complete establishment, Mr
Pancks had shown a sagacity that nothing could baffle, and a patience
and secrecy that nothing could tire. 'I little thought, sir,' said
Pancks, 'when you and I crossed Smithfield that night, and I told you
what sort of a Collector I was, that this would come of it. I little
thought, sir, when I told you you were not of the Clennams of
Cornwall, that I was ever going to tell you who were of the Dorrits of
Dorsetshire.' He then went on to detail. How, having that name recorded
in his note-book, he was first attracted by the name alone. How, having
often found two exactly similar names, even belonging to the same place,
      to involve no traceable consanguinity, near or distant, he did not at
      first give much heed to this, except in the way of speculation as to
      what a surprising change would be made in the condition of a little
      seamstress, if she could be shown to have any interest in so large a
      property. How he rather supposed himself to have pursued the idea into
      its next degree, because there was something uncommon in the quiet
      little seamstress, which pleased him and provoked his curiosity.
      How he had felt his way inch by inch, and 'Moled it out, sir' (that was
              Mr Pancks's expression), grain by grain. How, in the beginning of
      the labour described by this new verb, and to render which the more
      expressive Mr Pancks shut his eyes in pronouncing it and shook his hair
      over them, he had alternated from sudden lights and hopes to sudden
      darkness and no hopes, and back again, and back again. How he had made
      acquaintances in the Prison, expressly that he might come and go there
      as all other comers and goers did; and how his first ray of light was
      unconsciously given him by Mr Dorrit himself and by his son; to both of
      whom he easily became known; with both of whom he talked much, casually
      ('but always Moleing you'll observe,' said Mr Pancks): and from whom he
                                                             derived, without being at all suspected, two or three little points of
                                                             family history which, as he began to hold clues of his own, suggested
                                                             others. How it had at length become plain to Mr Pancks that he had made
                                                             a real discovery of the heir-at-law to a great fortune, and that his
                                                             discovery had but to be ripened to legal fulness and perfection. How
                                                             he had, thereupon, sworn his landlord, Mr Rugg, to secrecy in a solemn
                                                             manner, and taken him into Moleing partnership. How they had employed
                                                             John Chivery as their sole clerk and agent, seeing to whom he was
                                                             devoted. And how, until the present hour, when authorities mighty in the
                                                             Bank and learned in the law declared their successful labours ended,
                                                             they had confided in no other human being.

                                                             'So if the whole thing had broken down, sir,' concluded Pancks, 'at the
                                                             very last, say the day before the other day when I showed you our papers
                                                             in the Prison yard, or say that very day, nobody but ourselves would
                                                             have been cruelly disappointed, or a penny the worse.'

                                                             Clennam, who had been almost incessantly shaking hands with him
                                                             throughout the narrative, was reminded by this to say, in an amazement
                                                             which even the preparation he had had for the main disclosure smoothed
                                                             down, 'My dear Mr Pancks, this must have cost you a great sum of money.'

                                                             'Pretty well, sir,' said the triumphant Pancks. 'No trifle, though we
                                                             did it as cheap as it could be done. And the outlay was a difficulty,
                                                             let me tell you.'

                                                             'A difficulty!' repeated Clennam. 'But the difficulties you have so
                                                             wonderfully conquered in the whole business!' shaking his hand again.

                                                             'I'll tell you how I did it,' said the delighted Pancks, putting his
                                                             hair into a condition as elevated as himself. 'First, I spent all I had
                                                             of my own. That wasn't much.'

                                                             'I am sorry for it,' said Clennam: 'not that it matters now, though.
                                                             Then, what did you do?'

                                                             'Then,' answered Pancks, 'I borrowed a sum of my proprietor.'

                                                             'Of Mr Casby?' said Clennam. 'He's a fine old fellow.'

                                                             'Noble old boy; an't he?' said Mr Pancks, entering on a series of the
                                                             dryest snorts. 'Generous old buck. Confiding old boy. Philanthropic old
                                                             buck. Benevolent old boy! Twenty per cent. I engaged to pay him, sir.
                                                             But we never do business for less at our shop.'

                                                             Arthur felt an awkward consciousness of having, in his exultant
                                                             condition, been a little premature.

                                                             'I said to that boiling-over old Christian,' Mr Pancks pursued,
                                                             appearing greatly to relish this descriptive epithet, 'that I had got a
                                                             little project on hand; a hopeful one; I told him a hopeful one; which
                                                             wanted a certain small capital. I proposed to him to lend me the
                                                             money on my note. Which he did, at twenty; sticking the twenty on in a
                                                             business-like way, and putting it into the note, to look like a part of
                                                             the principal. If I had broken down after that, I should have been his
                                                             grubber for the next seven years at half wages and double grind. But
                                                             he's a perfect Patriarch; and it would do a man good to serve him on
                                                             such terms--on any terms.'

                                                             Arthur for his life could not have said with confidence whether Pancks
                                                             really thought so or not.

                                                             'When that was gone, sir,' resumed Pancks, 'and it did go, though I
                                                             dribbled it out like so much blood, I had taken Mr Rugg into the secret.
                                                             I proposed to borrow of Mr Rugg (or of Miss Rugg; it's the same thing;
                                                                     she made a little money by a speculation in the Common Pleas once). He
                                                             lent it at ten, and thought that pretty high. But Mr Rugg's a red-haired
                                                             man, sir, and gets his hair cut. And as to the crown of his hat, it's
                                                             high. And as to the brim of his hat, it's narrow. And there's no more
                                                             benevolence bubbling out of him, than out of a ninepin.'

                                                             'Your own recompense for all this, Mr Pancks,' said Clennam, 'ought to
                                                             be a large one.'

                                                             'I don't mistrust getting it, sir,' said Pancks. 'I have made no
                                                             bargain. I owed you one on that score; now I have paid it. Money out of
                                                             pocket made good, time fairly allowed for, and Mr Rugg's bill settled,
                                                             a thousand pounds would be a fortune to me. That matter I place in your
                                                             hands. I authorize you now to break all this to the family in any way
                                                             you think best. Miss Amy Dorrit will be with Mrs Finching this morning.
                                                             The sooner done the better. Can't be done too soon.'

                                                             This conversation took place in Clennam's bed-room, while he was yet in
                                                             bed. For Mr Pancks had knocked up the house and made his way in, very
                                                             early in the morning; and, without once sitting down or standing still,
                                                             had delivered himself of the whole of his details (illustrated with a
                                                                     variety of documents) at the bedside. He now said he would 'go and look
                                                             up Mr Rugg', from whom his excited state of mind appeared to require
                                                             another back; and bundling up his papers, and exchanging one more hearty
                                                             shake of the hand with Clennam, he went at full speed down-stairs, and
                                                             steamed off.

                                                             Clennam, of course, resolved to go direct to Mr Casby's. He dressed
                                                             and got out so quickly that he found himself at the corner of the
                                                             patriarchal street nearly an hour before her time; but he was not sorry
                                                             to have the opportunity of calming himself with a leisurely walk.

                                                             When he returned to the street, and had knocked at the bright brass
                                                             knocker, he was informed that she had come, and was shown up-stairs to
                                                             Flora's breakfast-room. Little Dorrit was not there herself, but Flora
                                                             was, and testified the greatest amazement at seeing him.

                                                             'Good gracious, Arthur--Doyce and Clennam!' cried that lady, 'who would
                                                             have ever thought of seeing such a sight as this and pray excuse a
                                                             wrapper for upon my word I really never and a faded check too which
                                                             is worse but our little friend is making me, not that I need mind
                                                             mentioning it to you for you must know that there are such things a
                                                             skirt, and having arranged that a trying on should take place after
                                                             breakfast is the reason though I wish not so badly starched.'

                                                             'I ought to make an apology,' said Arthur, 'for so early and abrupt a
                                                             visit; but you will excuse it when I tell you the cause.'

                                                             'In times for ever fled Arthur,' returned Mrs Finching, 'pray excuse
                                                             me Doyce and Clennam infinitely more correct and though unquestionably
                                                             distant still 'tis distance lends enchantment to the view, at least I
                                                             don't mean that and if I did I suppose it would depend considerably on
                                                             the nature of the view, but I'm running on again and you put it all out
                                                             of my head.'

                                                             She glanced at him tenderly, and resumed:

                                                             'In times for ever fled I was going to say it would have sounded
                                                             strange indeed for Arthur Clennam--Doyce and Clennam naturally quite
                                                             different--to make apologies for coming here at any time, but that is
                                                             past and what is past can never be recalled except in his own case as
                                                             poor Mr F. said when he was in spirits Cucumber and therefore never ate
                                                             it.'

                                                             She was making the tea when Arthur came in, and now hastily finished
                                                             that operation.

                                                             'Papa,' she said, all mystery and whisper, as she shut down the tea-pot
                                                             lid, 'is sitting prosingly breaking his new laid egg in the back parlour
                                                             over the City article exactly like the Woodpecker Tapping and need never
                                                             know that you are here, and our little friend you are well aware may be
                                                             fully trusted when she comes down from cutting out on the large table
                                                             overhead.'

                                                             Arthur then told her, in the fewest words, that it was their little
                                                             friend he came to see; and what he had to announce to their little
                                                             friend. At which astounding intelligence, Flora clasped her hands,
                                                             fell into a tremble, and shed tears of sympathy and pleasure, like the
                                                             good-natured creature she really was.

                                                             'For gracious sake let me get out of the way first,' said Flora, putting
                                                             her hands to her ears and moving towards the door, 'or I know I shall
                                                             go off dead and screaming and make everybody worse, and the dear little
                                                             thing only this morning looking so nice and neat and good and yet so
                                                             poor and now a fortune is she really and deserves it too! and might I
                                                             mention it to Mr F.'s Aunt Arthur not Doyce and Clennam for this once or
                                                             if objectionable not on any account.'

                                                             Arthur nodded his free permission, since Flora shut out all verbal
                                                             communication. Flora nodded in return to thank him, and hurried out of
                                                             the room.

                                                             Little Dorrit's step was already on the stairs, and in another moment
                                                             she was at the door. Do what he could to compose his face, he could not
                                                             convey so much of an ordinary expression into it, but that the moment
                                                             she saw it she dropped her work, and cried, 'Mr Clennam! What's the
                                                             matter?'

                                                             'Nothing, nothing. That is, no misfortune has happened. I have come
                                                             to tell you something, but it is a piece of great good-fortune.'

                                                             'Good-fortune?'

                                                             'Wonderful fortune!'

                                                             They stood in a window, and her eyes, full of light, were fixed upon his
                                                             face. He put an arm about her, seeing her likely to sink down. She put
                                                             a hand upon that arm, partly to rest upon it, and partly so to preserve
                                                             their relative positions as that her intent look at him should be shaken
                                                             by no change of attitude in either of them. Her lips seemed to repeat
                                                             'Wonderful fortune?' He repeated it again, aloud.

                                                             'Dear Little Dorrit! Your father.'

                                                             The ice of the pale face broke at the word, and little lights and shoots
                                                             of expression passed all over it. They were all expressions of pain. Her
                                                             breath was faint and hurried. Her heart beat fast. He would have clasped
                                                             the little figure closer, but he saw that the eyes appealed to him not
                                                             to be moved.

                                                             'Your father can be free within this week. He does not know it; we must
                                                             go to him from here, to tell him of it. Your father will be free within
                                                             a few days. Your father will be free within a few hours. Remember we
                                                             must go to him from here, to tell him of it!'

                                                             That brought her back. Her eyes were closing, but they opened again.

                                                             'This is not all the good-fortune. This is not all the wonderful
                                                             good-fortune, my dear Little Dorrit. Shall I tell you more?'

                                                             Her lips shaped 'Yes.'

                                                             'Your father will be no beggar when he is free. He will want for
                                                             nothing. Shall I tell you more? Remember! He knows nothing of it; we
                                                             must go to him, from here, to tell him of it!'

                                                             She seemed to entreat him for a little time. He held her in his arm,
                                                             and, after a pause, bent down his ear to listen.

                                                             'Did you ask me to go on?'

                                                             'Yes.'

                                                             'He will be a rich man. He is a rich man. A great sum of money
                                                             is waiting to be paid over to him as his inheritance; you are all
                                                             henceforth very wealthy. Bravest and best of children, I thank Heaven
                                                             that you are rewarded!'

                                                             As he kissed her, she turned her head towards his shoulder, and raised
                                                             her arm towards his neck; cried out 'Father! Father! Father!' and
                                                             swooned away.

                                                             Upon which Flora returned to take care of her, and hovered about her on
                                                             a sofa, intermingling kind offices and incoherent scraps of conversation
                                                             in a manner so confounding, that whether she pressed the Marshalsea to
                                                             take a spoonful of unclaimed dividends, for it would do her good;
                                                             or whether she congratulated Little Dorrit's father on coming into
                                                             possession of a hundred thousand smelling-bottles; or whether she
                                                             explained that she put seventy-five thousand drops of spirits of
                                                             lavender on fifty thousand pounds of lump sugar, and that she entreated
                                                             Little Dorrit to take that gentle restorative; or whether she bathed the
                                                             foreheads of Doyce and Clennam in vinegar, and gave the late Mr F. more
                                                             air; no one with any sense of responsibility could have undertaken to
                                                             decide. A tributary stream of confusion, moreover, poured in from an
                                                             adjoining bedroom, where Mr F.'s Aunt appeared, from the sound of her
                                                             voice, to be in a horizontal posture, awaiting her breakfast; and from
                                                             which bower that inexorable lady snapped off short taunts, whenever she
                                                             could get a hearing, as, 'Don't believe it's his doing!' and 'He needn't
                                                             take no credit to himself for it!' and 'It'll be long enough, I expect,
                                                             afore he'll give up any of his own money!' all designed to disparage
                                                             Clennam's share in the discovery, and to relieve those inveterate
                                                             feelings with which Mr F.'s Aunt regarded him.

                                                             But Little Dorrit's solicitude to get to her father, and to carry the
                                                             joyful tidings to him, and not to leave him in his jail a moment with
                                                             this happiness in store for him and still unknown to him, did more for
                                                             her speedy restoration than all the skill and attention on earth could
                                                             have done. 'Come with me to my dear father. Pray come and tell my dear
                                                             father!' were the first words she said. Her father, her father. She
                                                             spoke of nothing but him, thought of nothing but him. Kneeling down and
                                                             pouring out her thankfulness with uplifted hands, her thanks were for
                                                             her father.

                                                             Flora's tenderness was quite overcome by this, and she launched out
                                                             among the cups and saucers into a wonderful flow of tears and speech.

                                                             'I declare,' she sobbed, 'I never was so cut up since your mama and my
                                                             papa not Doyce and Clennam for this once but give the precious little
                                                             thing a cup of tea and make her put it to her lips at least pray Arthur
                                                             do, not even Mr F.'s last illness for that was of another kind and gout
                                                             is not a child's affection though very painful for all parties and Mr
                                                             F. a martyr with his leg upon a rest and the wine trade in itself
                                                             inflammatory for they will do it more or less among themselves and who
                                                             can wonder, it seems like a dream I am sure to think of nothing at all
                                                             this morning and now Mines of money is it really, but you must know my
                                                             darling love because you never will be strong enough to tell him all
                                                             about it upon teaspoons, mightn't it be even best to try the directions
                                                             of my own medical man for though the flavour is anything but agreeable
                                                             still I force myself to do it as a prescription and find the benefit,
                                                             you'd rather not why no my dear I'd rather not but still I do it as a
                                                             duty, everybody will congratulate you some in earnest and some not and
                                                             many will congratulate you with all their hearts but none more so I
                                                             do assure you from the bottom of my own I do myself though sensible of
                                                             blundering and being stupid, and will be judged by Arthur not Doyce and
                                                             Clennam for this once so good-bye darling and God bless you and may you
                                                             be very happy and excuse the liberty, vowing that the dress shall never
                                                             be finished by anybody else but shall be laid by for a keepsake just
                                                             as it is and called Little Dorrit though why that strangest of
                                                             denominations at any time I never did myself and now I never shall!'

                                                             Thus Flora, in taking leave of her favourite. Little Dorrit thanked her,
                                                             and embraced her, over and over again; and finally came out of the house
                                                             with Clennam, and took coach for the Marshalsea.

                                                             It was a strangely unreal ride through the old squalid streets, with a
                                                             sensation of being raised out of them into an airy world of wealth
                                                             and grandeur. When Arthur told her that she would soon ride in her
                                                             own carriage through very different scenes, when all the familiar
                                                             experiences would have vanished away, she looked frightened. But when
                                                             he substituted her father for herself, and told her how he would ride in
                                                             his carriage, and how great and grand he would be, her tears of joy
                                                             and innocent pride fell fast. Seeing that the happiness her mind could
                                                             realise was all shining upon him, Arthur kept that single figure before
                                                             her; and so they rode brightly through the poor streets in the prison
                                                             neighbourhood to carry him the great news.

                                                             When Mr Chivery, who was on duty, admitted them into the Lodge, he saw
                                                             something in their faces which filled him with astonishment. He stood
                                                             looking after them, when they hurried into the prison, as though he
                                                             perceived that they had come back accompanied by a ghost a-piece. Two or
                                                             three Collegians whom they passed, looked after them too, and presently
                                                             joining Mr Chivery, formed a little group on the Lodge steps, in the
                                                             midst of which there spontaneously originated a whisper that the Father
                                                             was going to get his discharge. Within a few minutes, it was heard in
                                                             the remotest room in the College.

                                                             Little Dorrit opened the door from without, and they both entered. He
                                                             was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap, in the sunlight
                                                             by the window, reading his newspaper. His glasses were in his hand, and
                                                             he had just looked round; surprised at first, no doubt, by her step upon
                                                             the stairs, not expecting her until night; surprised again, by seeing
                                                             Arthur Clennam in her company. As they came in, the same unwonted look
                                                             in both of them which had already caught attention in the yard below,
                                                             struck him. He did not rise or speak, but laid down his glasses and his
                                                             newspaper on the table beside him, and looked at them with his mouth
                                                             a little open and his lips trembling. When Arthur put out his hand,
                                                             he touched it, but not with his usual state; and then he turned to his
                                                             daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her hands upon his
                                                             shoulder, and looked attentively in her face.

                                                             'Father! I have been made so happy this morning!'

                                                             'You have been made so happy, my dear?'

                                                             'By Mr Clennam, father. He brought me such joyful and wonderful
                                                             intelligence about you! If he had not with his great kindness and
                                                             gentleness, prepared me for it, father--prepared me for it, father--I
                                                             think I could not have borne it.'

                                                             Her agitation was exceedingly great, and the tears rolled down her face.
                                                             He put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam.

                                                             'Compose yourself, sir,' said Clennam, 'and take a little time to think.
                                                             To think of the brightest and most fortunate accidents of life. We have
                                                             all heard of great surprises of joy. They are not at an end, sir. They
                                                             are rare, but not at an end.'

                                                             'Mr Clennam? Not at an end? Not at an end for--' He touched himself upon
                                                             the breast, instead of saying 'me.'

                                                             'No,' returned Clennam.

                                                             'What surprise,' he asked, keeping his left hand over his heart, and
                                                             there stopping in his speech, while with his right hand he put his
                                                             glasses exactly level on the table: 'what such surprise can be in store
                                                             for me?'

                                                             'Let me answer with another question. Tell me, Mr Dorrit, what surprise
                                                             would be the most unlooked for and the most acceptable to you. Do not be
                                                             afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be.'

                                                             He looked steadfastly at Clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed to
                                                             change into a very old haggard man. The sun was bright upon the wall
                                                             beyond the window, and on the spikes at top. He slowly stretched out the
                                                             hand that had been upon his heart, and pointed at the wall.

                                                             'It is down,' said Clennam. 'Gone!'

                                                             He remained in the same attitude, looking steadfastly at him.

                                                             'And in its place,' said Clennam, slowly and distinctly, 'are the means
                                                             to possess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out. Mr
                                                             Dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you will
                                                             be free, and highly prosperous. I congratulate you with all my soul on
                                                             this change of fortune, and on the happy future into which you are soon
                                                             to carry the treasure you have been blest with here--the best of all the
                                                             riches you can have elsewhere--the treasure at your side.'

                                                             With those words, he pressed his hand and released it; and his daughter,
                                                             laying her face against his, encircled him in the hour of his prosperity
                                                             with her arms, as she had in the long years of his adversity encircled
                                                             him with her love and toil and truth; and poured out her full heart in
                                                             gratitude, hope, joy, blissful ecstasy, and all for him.

                                                             'I shall see him as I never saw him yet. I shall see my dear love, with
                                                             the dark cloud cleared away. I shall see him, as my poor mother saw him
                                                             long ago. O my dear, my dear! O father, father! O thank God, thank God!'

                                                             He yielded himself to her kisses and caresses, but did not return them,
                                                             except that he put an arm about her. Neither did he say one word. His
                                                             steadfast look was now divided between her and Clennam, and he began to
                                                             shake as if he were very cold. Explaining to Little Dorrit that he would
                                                             run to the coffee-house for a bottle of wine, Arthur fetched it with all
                                                             the haste he could use. While it was being brought from the cellar to
                                                             the bar, a number of excited people asked him what had happened; when he
                                                             hurriedly informed them that Mr Dorrit had succeeded to a fortune.

                                                             On coming back with the wine in his hand, he found that she had placed
                                                             her father in his easy chair, and had loosened his shirt and neckcloth.
                                                             They filled a tumbler with wine, and held it to his lips. When he had
                                                             swallowed a little, he took the glass himself and emptied it. Soon
                                                             after that, he leaned back in his chair and cried, with his handkerchief
                                                             before his face.

                                                             After this had lasted a while Clennam thought it a good season for
                                                             diverting his attention from the main surprise, by relating its details.
                                                             Slowly, therefore, and in a quiet tone of voice, he explained them as
                                                             best he could, and enlarged on the nature of Pancks's service.

                                                             'He shall be--ha--he shall be handsomely recompensed, sir,' said
                                                             the Father, starting up and moving hurriedly about the room. 'Assure
                                                             yourself, Mr Clennam, that everybody concerned shall be--ha--shall
                                                             be nobly rewarded. No one, my dear sir, shall say that he has an
                                                             unsatisfied claim against me. I shall repay the--hum--the advances I
                                                             have had from you, sir, with peculiar pleasure. I beg to be informed at
                                                             your earliest convenience, what advances you have made my son.'

                                                             He had no purpose in going about the room, but he was not still a
                                                             moment.

                                                             'Everybody,' he said, 'shall be remembered. I will not go away from
                                                             here in anybody's debt. All the people who have been--ha--well behaved
                                                             towards myself and my family, shall be rewarded. Chivery shall be
                                                             rewarded. Young John shall be rewarded. I particularly wish, and intend,
                                                             to act munificently, Mr Clennam.'

                                                             'Will you allow me,' said Arthur, laying his purse on the table, 'to
                                                             supply any present contingencies, Mr Dorrit? I thought it best to bring
                                                             a sum of money for the purpose.'

                                                             'Thank you, sir, thank you. I accept with readiness, at the present
                                                             moment, what I could not an hour ago have conscientiously taken. I am
                                                             obliged to you for the temporary accommodation. Exceedingly temporary,
                                                             but well timed--well timed.' His hand had closed upon the money, and
                                                             he carried it about with him. 'Be so kind, sir, as to add the amount to
                                                             those former advances to which I have already referred; being careful,
                                                             if you please, not to omit advances made to my son. A mere verbal
                                                             statement of the gross amount is all I shall--ha--all I shall require.'

                                                             His eye fell upon his daughter at this point, and he stopped for a
                                                             moment to kiss her, and to pat her head.

                                                             'It will be necessary to find a milliner, my love, and to make a speedy
                                                             and complete change in your very plain dress. Something must be done
                                                             with Maggy too, who at present is--ha--barely respectable, barely
                                                             respectable. And your sister, Amy, and your brother. And _my_ brother,
                                                             your uncle--poor soul, I trust this will rouse him--messengers must be
                                                             despatched to fetch them. They must be informed of this. We must break
                                                             it to them cautiously, but they must be informed directly. We owe it
                                                             as a duty to them and to ourselves, from this moment, not to let
                                                             them--hum--not to let them do anything.'

                                                             This was the first intimation he had ever given, that he was privy to
                                                             the fact that they did something for a livelihood.

                                                             He was still jogging about the room, with the purse clutched in his
                                                             hand, when a great cheering arose in the yard. 'The news has spread
                                                             already,' said Clennam, looking down from the window. 'Will you show
                                                             yourself to them, Mr Dorrit? They are very earnest, and they evidently
                                                             wish it.'

                                                             'I--hum--ha--I confess I could have desired, Amy my dear,' he said,
                                                             jogging about in a more feverish flutter than before, 'to have made some
                                                             change in my dress first, and to have bought a--hum--a watch and chain.
                                                             But if it must be done as it is, it--ha--it must be done. Fasten the
                                                             collar of my shirt, my dear. Mr Clennam, would you oblige me--hum--with
                                                             a blue neckcloth you will find in that drawer at your elbow. Button
                                                             my coat across at the chest, my love. It looks--ha--it looks broader,
                                                             buttoned.'

                                                             With his trembling hand he pushed his grey hair up, and then, taking
                                                             Clennam and his daughter for supporters, appeared at the window leaning
                                                             on an arm of each. The Collegians cheered him very heartily, and he
                                                             kissed his hand to them with great urbanity and protection. When he
                                                             withdrew into the room again, he said 'Poor creatures!' in a tone of
                                                             much pity for their miserable condition.

                                                             Little Dorrit was deeply anxious that he should lie down to compose
                                                             himself. On Arthur's speaking to her of his going to inform Pancks that
                                                             he might now appear as soon as he would, and pursue the joyful business
                                                             to its close, she entreated him in a whisper to stay with her until her
                                                             father should be quite calm and at rest. He needed no second entreaty;
                                                             and she prepared her father's bed, and begged him to lie down. For
                                                             another half-hour or more he would be persuaded to do nothing but
                                                             go about the room, discussing with himself the probabilities for and
                                                             against the Marshal's allowing the whole of the prisoners to go to the
                                                             windows of the official residence which commanded the street, to see
                                                             himself and family depart for ever in a carriage--which, he said, he
                                                             thought would be a Sight for them. But gradually he began to droop and
                                                             tire, and at last stretched himself upon the bed.

                                                             She took her faithful place beside him, fanning him and cooling his
                                                             forehead; and he seemed to be falling asleep (always with the money in
                                                                     his hand), when he unexpectedly sat up and said:

                                                             'Mr Clennam, I beg your pardon. Am I to understand, my dear sir, that I
                                                             could--ha--could pass through the Lodge at this moment, and--hum--take a
                                                             walk?'

                                                             'I think not, Mr Dorrit,' was the unwilling reply. 'There are certain
                                                             forms to be completed; and although your detention here is now in itself
                                                             a form, I fear it is one that for a little longer has to be observed
                                                             too.'

                                                             At this he shed tears again.

                                                             'It is but a few hours, sir,' Clennam cheerfully urged upon him.

                                                             'A few hours, sir,' he returned in a sudden passion. 'You talk very
                                                             easily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a
                                                             man who is choking for want of air?'

                                                             It was his last demonstration for that time; as, after shedding some
                                                             more tears and querulously complaining that he couldn't breathe, he
                                                             slowly fell into a slumber. Clennam had abundant occupation for his
                                                             thoughts, as he sat in the quiet room watching the father on his bed,
                                                             and the daughter fanning his face.

                                                             Little Dorrit had been thinking too. After softly putting his grey hair
                                                             aside, and touching his forehead with her lips, she looked towards
                                                             Arthur, who came nearer to her, and pursued in a low whisper the subject
                                                             of her thoughts.

                                                             'Mr Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves here?'

                                                             'No doubt. All.'

                                                             'All the debts for which he had been imprisoned here, all my life and
                                                             longer?'

                                                             'No doubt.'

                                                             There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look;
                                                             something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, and
                                                             said:

                                                             'You are glad that he should do so?'

                                                             'Are you?' asked Little Dorrit, wistfully.

                                                             'Am I? Most heartily glad!'

                                                             'Then I know I ought to be.'

                                                             'And are you not?'

                                                             'It seems to me hard,' said Little Dorrit, 'that he should have lost so
                                                             many years and suffered so much, and at last pay all the debts as well.
                                                             It seems to me hard that he should pay in life and money both.'

                                                             'My dear child--' Clennam was beginning.

                                                             'Yes, I know I am wrong,' she pleaded timidly, 'don't think any worse of
                                                             me; it has grown up with me here.'

                                                             The prison, which could spoil so many things, had tainted Little
                                                             Dorrit's mind no more than this. Engendered as the confusion was, in
                                                             compassion for the poor prisoner, her father, it was the first speck
                                                             Clennam had ever seen, it was the last speck Clennam ever saw, of the
                                                             prison atmosphere upon her.

                                                             He thought this, and forbore to say another word. With the thought, her
                                                             purity and goodness came before him in their brightest light. The little
                                                             spot made them the more beautiful.

                                                             Worn out with her own emotions, and yielding to the silence of the room,
                                                             her hand slowly slackened and failed in its fanning movement, and her
                                                             head dropped down on the pillow at her father's side. Clennam rose
                                                             softly, opened and closed the door without a sound, and passed from the
                                                             prison, carrying the quiet with him into the turbulent streets.

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

completion: OK, ready for the grand reveal? It turns out Pancks has discovered that Dorrit is actually... the heir to a huge unclaimed fortune! He can pay off his debts and get out of prison! Arthur is totally floored and thanks Pancks over and over again. Yay! Little Dorrit can be free! Pancks tells him how he figured it out. Apparently Pancks has a thing about names, and his hobby is genealogy. Or something. In any case, he stumbled on the unclaimed estate that rightfully belongs to Dorrit. Doing all this research cost a ton of money. Some of it he's had to borrow from Casby, who is charging him an unheard-of 20 percent interest . But still - the gamble paid off, since Pancks will obviously be paid back handsomely by Dorrit. Arthur runs off to tell Little Dorrit, who almost passes out. She can't imagine being rich herself, but then gets it together as soon as she starts imagining her father a rich man instead. So... we're guessing the whole self-sacrificing thing isn't really going to change with money. They decide to tell Dorrit very carefully and slowly, so he doesn't keel over from the news. He is obviously completely amazed that he's now a free man and about to get a ton of money. The first thing he does is announce really seriously that every single person who has ever given him any money will be paid back, and then some. The second thing is to send messengers for Fanny and his brother Frederick so that they immediately stop working - which is the first time he's ever acknowledged that they do any such thing. But just we're all kind of moved that he is immediately becoming generous and thoughtful, Dorrit becomes totally preoccupied with how he can get permission for all the prisoners to watch him leave the prison in a carriage, since "would be a Sight for them" . Aw, isn't that nice. Finally, overwhelmed by all the excitement, Dorrit goes to sleep. Little Dorrit tells Arthur that it seems kinds of unfair that he has to pay his debts both in money and in prison time. Arthur is sort of charmed that she is so sweet and naive.