prompt:
Chapter: Arthur continuing to lie very ill in the Marshalsea, and Mr Rugg
descrying no break in the legal sky affording a hope of his enlargement,
          Mr Pancks suffered desperately from self-reproaches. If it had not been
          for those infallible figures which proved that Arthur, instead of pining
          in imprisonment, ought to be promenading in a carriage and pair, and
          that Mr Pancks, instead of being restricted to his clerkly wages, ought
          to have from three to five thousand pounds of his own at his immediate
          disposal, that unhappy arithmetician would probably have taken to his
          bed, and there have made one of the many obscure persons who turned
          their faces to the wall and died, as a last sacrifice to the late Mr
          Merdle's greatness. Solely supported by his unimpugnable calculations,
          Mr Pancks led an unhappy and restless life; constantly carrying his
          figures about with him in his hat, and not only going over them himself
          on every possible occasion, but entreating every human being he could
          lay hold of to go over them with him, and observe what a clear case it
          was. Down in Bleeding Heart Yard there was scarcely an inhabitant of
          note to whom Mr Pancks had not imparted his demonstration, and, as
          figures are catching, a kind of cyphering measles broke out in that
          locality, under the influence of which the whole Yard was light-headed.

          The more restless Mr Pancks grew in his mind, the more impatient he
          became of the Patriarch. In their later conferences his snorting assumed
          an irritable sound which boded the Patriarch no good; likewise, Mr
          Pancks had on several occasions looked harder at the Patriarchal bumps
          than was quite reconcilable with the fact of his not being a painter, or
          a peruke-maker in search of the living model.

          However, he steamed in and out of his little back Dock according as he
          was wanted or not wanted in the Patriarchal presence, and business had
          gone on in its customary course. Bleeding Heart Yard had been harrowed
          by Mr Pancks, and cropped by Mr Casby, at the regular seasons; Mr Pancks
          had taken all the drudgery and all the dirt of the business as _his_
          share; Mr Casby had taken all the profits, all the ethereal vapour, and
          all the moonshine, as his share; and, in the form of words which that
          benevolent beamer generally employed on Saturday evenings, when he
          twirled his fat thumbs after striking the week's balance, 'everything
          had been satisfactory to all parties--all parties--satisfactory, sir, to
          all parties.'

          The Dock of the Steam-Tug, Pancks, had a leaden roof, which, frying in
          the very hot sunshine, may have heated the vessel. Be that as it
          may, one glowing Saturday evening, on being hailed by the lumbering
          bottle-green ship, the Tug instantly came working out of the Dock in a
          highly heated condition.

          'Mr Pancks,' was the Patriarchal remark, 'you have been remiss, you have
          been remiss, sir.'

          'What do you mean by that?' was the short rejoinder.

          The Patriarchal state, always a state of calmness and composure, was
          so particularly serene that evening as to be provoking. Everybody else
          within the bills of mortality was hot; but the Patriarch was perfectly
          cool. Everybody was thirsty, and the Patriarch was drinking. There was
          a fragrance of limes or lemons about him; and he made a drink of golden
          sherry, which shone in a large tumbler as if he were drinking the
          evening sunshine. This was bad, but not the worst. The worst was, that
          with his big blue eyes, and his polished head, and his long white hair,
          and his bottle-green legs stretched out before him, terminating in his
          easy shoes easily crossed at the instep, he had a radiant appearance
          of having in his extensive benevolence made the drink for the human
          species, while he himself wanted nothing but his own milk of human
          kindness.

          Wherefore, Mr Pancks said, 'What do you mean by that?' and put his hair
          up with both hands, in a highly portentous manner.

          'I mean, Mr Pancks, that you must be sharper with the people, sharper
          with the people, much sharper with the people, sir. You don't squeeze
          them. You don't squeeze them. Your receipts are not up to the mark. You
          must squeeze them, sir, or our connection will not continue to be as
          satisfactory as I could wish it to be to all parties. All parties.'

          '_Don't_ I squeeze 'em?' retorted Mr Pancks. 'What else am I made for?'

          'You are made for nothing else, Mr Pancks. You are made to do your
          duty, but you don't do your duty. You are paid to squeeze, and you
          must squeeze to pay.' The Patriarch so much surprised himself by this
          brilliant turn, after Dr Johnson, which he had not in the least
          expected or intended, that he laughed aloud; and repeated with great
          satisfaction, as he twirled his thumbs and nodded at his youthful
          portrait, 'Paid to squeeze, sir, and must squeeze to pay.'

          'Oh,' said Pancks. 'Anything more?'

          'Yes, sir, yes, sir. Something more. You will please, Mr Pancks, to
          squeeze the Yard again, the first thing on Monday morning.'

          'Oh!' said Pancks. 'Ain't that too soon? I squeezed it dry to-day.'

          'Nonsense, sir. Not near the mark, not near the mark.'

          'Oh!' said Pancks, watching him as he benevolently gulped down a good
          draught of his mixture. 'Anything more?'

          'Yes, sir, yes, sir, something more. I am not at all pleased, Mr Pancks,
          with my daughter; not at all pleased. Besides calling much too often
          to inquire for Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam, who is not just now in
          circumstances that are by any means calculated to--to be satisfactory to
          all parties, she goes, Mr Pancks, unless I am much deceived, to inquire
          for Mr Clennam in jail. In jail.'

          'He's laid up, you know,' said Pancks. 'Perhaps it's kind.'

          'Pooh, pooh, Mr Pancks. She has nothing to do with that, nothing to do
          with that. I can't allow it. Let him pay his debts and come out, come
          out; pay his debts, and come out.'

          Although Mr Pancks's hair was standing up like strong wire, he gave it
          another double-handed impulse in the perpendicular direction, and smiled
          at his proprietor in a most hideous manner.

          'You will please to mention to my daughter, Mr Pancks, that I can't
          allow it, can't allow it,' said the Patriarch blandly.

          'Oh!' said Pancks. 'You couldn't mention it yourself?'

          'No, sir, no; you are paid to mention it,' the blundering old booby
          could not resist the temptation of trying it again, 'and you must
          mention it to pay, mention it to pay.'

          'Oh!' said Pancks. 'Anything more?'

          'Yes, sir. It appears to me, Mr Pancks, that you yourself are too often
          and too much in that direction, that direction. I recommend you, Mr
          Pancks, to dismiss from your attention both your own losses and other
          people's losses, and to mind your business, mind your business.'

          Mr Pancks acknowledged this recommendation with such an extraordinarily
          abrupt, short, and loud utterance of the monosyllable 'Oh!' that even
          the unwieldy Patriarch moved his blue eyes in something of a hurry, to
          look at him. Mr Pancks, with a sniff of corresponding intensity, then
          added, 'Anything more?'

          'Not at present, sir, not at present. I am going,' said the Patriarch,
          finishing his mixture, and rising with an amiable air, 'to take a little
          stroll, a little stroll. Perhaps I shall find you here when I come back.
          If not, sir, duty, duty; squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, on Monday; squeeze
          on Monday!'

          Mr Pancks, after another stiffening of his hair, looked on at the
          Patriarchal assumption of the broad-brimmed hat, with a momentary
          appearance of indecision contending with a sense of injury. He was also
          hotter than at first, and breathed harder. But he suffered Mr Casby to
          go out, without offering any further remark, and then took a peep at
          him over the little green window-blinds. 'I thought so,' he observed. 'I
          knew where you were bound to. Good!' He then steamed back to his Dock,
          put it carefully in order, took down his hat, looked round the Dock,
          said 'Good-bye!' and puffed away on his own account. He steered straight
          for Mrs Plornish's end of Bleeding Heart Yard, and arrived there, at the
          top of the steps, hotter than ever.

          At the top of the steps, resisting Mrs Plornish's invitations to come
          and sit along with father in Happy Cottage--which to his relief were not
          so numerous as they would have been on any other night than Saturday,
          when the connection who so gallantly supported the business with
          everything but money gave their orders freely--at the top of the steps
          Mr Pancks remained until he beheld the Patriarch, who always entered
          the Yard at the other end, slowly advancing, beaming, and surrounded
          by suitors. Then Mr Pancks descended and bore down upon him, with his
          utmost pressure of steam on.

          The Patriarch, approaching with his usual benignity, was surprised to
          see Mr Pancks, but supposed him to have been stimulated to an immediate
          squeeze instead of postponing that operation until Monday. The
          population of the Yard were astonished at the meeting, for the two
          powers had never been seen there together, within the memory of the
          oldest Bleeding Heart. But they were overcome by unutterable amazement
          when Mr Pancks, going close up to the most venerable of men and halting
          in front of the bottle-green waistcoat, made a trigger of his right
          thumb and forefinger, applied the same to the brim of the broad-brimmed
          hat, and, with singular smartness and precision, shot it off the
          polished head as if it had been a large marble.

          Having taken this little liberty with the Patriarchal person, Mr Pancks
          further astounded and attracted the Bleeding Hearts by saying in an
          audible voice, 'Now, you sugary swindler, I mean to have it out with
          you!'

          Mr Pancks and the Patriarch were instantly the centre of a press, all
          eyes and ears; windows were thrown open, and door-steps were thronged.

          'What do you pretend to be?' said Mr Pancks. 'What's your moral game?
          What do you go in for? Benevolence, an't it? You benevolent!' Here Mr
          Pancks, apparently without the intention of hitting him, but merely to
          relieve his mind and expend his superfluous power in wholesome exercise,
          aimed a blow at the bumpy head, which the bumpy head ducked to
          avoid. This singular performance was repeated, to the ever-increasing
          admiration of the spectators, at the end of every succeeding article of
          Mr Pancks's oration.

          'I have discharged myself from your service,' said Pancks, 'that I may
          tell you what you are. You're one of a lot of impostors that are the
          worst lot of all the lots to be met with. Speaking as a sufferer by
          both, I don't know that I wouldn't as soon have the Merdle lot as your
          lot. You're a driver in disguise, a screwer by deputy, a wringer, and
          squeezer, and shaver by substitute. You're a philanthropic sneak. You're
          a shabby deceiver!'

          (The repetition of the performance at this point was received with a
           burst of laughter.)

          'Ask these good people who's the hard man here. They'll tell you Pancks,
          I believe.'

          This was confirmed with cries of 'Certainly,' and 'Hear!'

          'But I tell you, good people--Casby! This mound of meekness, this lump
          of love, this bottle-green smiler, this is your driver!' said Pancks.
          'If you want to see the man who would flay you alive--here he is! Don't
          look for him in me, at thirty shillings a week, but look for him in
          Casby, at I don't know how much a year!'

          'Good!' cried several voices. 'Hear Mr Pancks!'

          'Hear Mr Pancks?' cried that gentleman (after repeating the popular
                  performance). 'Yes, I should think so! It's almost time to hear Mr
          Pancks. Mr Pancks has come down into the Yard to-night on purpose that
          you should hear him. Pancks is only the Works; but here's the Winder!'

          The audience would have gone over to Mr Pancks, as one man, woman, and
          child, but for the long, grey, silken locks, and the broad-brimmed hat.

          'Here's the Stop,' said Pancks, 'that sets the tune to be ground. And
          there is but one tune, and its name is Grind, Grind, Grind! Here's the
          Proprietor, and here's his Grubber. Why, good people, when he comes
          smoothly spinning through the Yard to-night, like a slow-going
          benevolent Humming-Top, and when you come about him with your complaints
          of the Grubber, you don't know what a cheat the Proprietor is! What do
          you think of his showing himself to-night, that I may have all the blame
          on Monday? What do you think of his having had me over the coals this
          very evening, because I don't squeeze you enough? What do you think of
          my being, at the present moment, under special orders to squeeze you dry
          on Monday?'

          The reply was given in a murmur of 'Shame!' and 'Shabby!'

          'Shabby?' snorted Pancks. 'Yes, I should think so! The lot that your
          Casby belongs to, is the shabbiest of all the lots. Setting their
          Grubbers on, at a wretched pittance, to do what they're ashamed and
          afraid to do and pretend not to do, but what they will have done, or
          give a man no rest! Imposing on you to give their Grubbers nothing but
          blame, and to give them nothing but credit! Why, the worst-looking
          cheat in all this town who gets the value of eighteenpence under false
          pretences, an't half such a cheat as this sign-post of The Casby's Head
          here!'

          Cries of 'That's true!' and 'No more he an't!'

          'And see what you get of these fellows, besides,' said Pancks. 'See what
          more you get of these precious Humming-Tops, revolving among you with
          such smoothness that you've no idea of the pattern painted on 'em, or
          the little window in 'em. I wish to call your attention to myself for a
          moment. I an't an agreeable style of chap, I know that very well.'

          The auditory were divided on this point; its more uncompromising members
          crying, 'No, you are not,' and its politer materials, 'Yes, you are.'

          'I am, in general,' said Mr Pancks, 'a dry, uncomfortable, dreary
          Plodder and Grubber. That's your humble servant. There's his full-length
          portrait, painted by himself and presented to you, warranted a likeness!
          But what's a man to be, with such a man as this for his Proprietor?
          What can be expected of him? Did anybody ever find boiled mutton and
          caper-sauce growing in a cocoa-nut?'

          None of the Bleeding Hearts ever had, it was clear from the alacrity of
          their response.

          'Well,' said Mr Pancks, 'and neither will you find in Grubbers like
          myself, under Proprietors like this, pleasant qualities. I've been a
          Grubber from a boy. What has my life been? Fag and grind, fag and grind,
          turn the wheel, turn the wheel! I haven't been agreeable to myself,
          and I haven't been likely to be agreeable to anybody else. If I was a
          shilling a week less useful in ten years' time, this impostor would give
          me a shilling a week less; if as useful a man could be got at sixpence
          cheaper, he would be taken in my place at sixpence cheaper. Bargain and
          sale, bless you! Fixed principles! It's a mighty fine sign-post, is The
          Casby's Head,' said Mr Pancks, surveying it with anything rather than
          admiration; 'but the real name of the House is the Sham's Arms. Its
          motto is, Keep the Grubber always at it. Is any gentleman present,' said
          Mr Pancks, breaking off and looking round, 'acquainted with the English
          Grammar?'

          Bleeding Heart Yard was shy of claiming that acquaintance.

          'It's no matter,' said Mr Pancks, 'I merely wish to remark that the task
          this Proprietor has set me, has been never to leave off conjugating the
          Imperative Mood Present Tense of the verb To keep always at it. Keep
          thou always at it. Let him keep always at it. Keep we or do we keep
          always at it. Keep ye or do ye or you keep always at it. Let them keep
          always at it. Here is your benevolent Patriarch of a Casby, and there is
          his golden rule. He is uncommonly improving to look at, and I am not
          at all so. He is as sweet as honey, and I am as dull as ditch-water. He
          provides the pitch, and I handle it, and it sticks to me. Now,' said
          Mr Pancks, closing upon his late Proprietor again, from whom he had
          withdrawn a little for the better display of him to the Yard; 'as I am
          not accustomed to speak in public, and as I have made a rather lengthy
          speech, all circumstances considered, I shall bring my observations to a
          close by requesting you to get out of this.'

          The Last of the Patriarchs had been so seized by assault, and required
          so much room to catch an idea in, an so much more room to turn it in,
          that he had not a word to offer in reply. He appeared to be meditating
          some Patriarchal way out of his delicate position, when Mr Pancks, once
          more suddenly applying the trigger to his hat, shot it off again with
          his former dexterity. On the preceding occasion, one or two of the
          Bleeding Heart Yarders had obsequiously picked it up and handed it to
          its owner; but Mr Pancks had now so far impressed his audience, that the
          Patriarch had to turn and stoop for it himself.

          Quick as lightning, Mr Pancks, who, for some moments, had had his right
          hand in his coat pocket, whipped out a pair of shears, swooped upon the
          Patriarch behind, and snipped off short the sacred locks that flowed
          upon his shoulders. In a paroxysm of animosity and rapidity, Mr Pancks
          then caught the broad-brimmed hat out of the astounded Patriarch's hand,
          cut it down into a mere stewpan, and fixed it on the Patriarch's head.

          Before the frightful results of this desperate action, Mr Pancks himself
          recoiled in consternation. A bare-polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed
          lumbering personage stood staring at him, not in the least impressive,
          not in the least venerable, who seemed to have started out of the
          earth to ask what was become of Casby. After staring at this phantom in
          return, in silent awe, Mr Pancks threw down his shears, and fled for a
          place of hiding, where he might lie sheltered from the consequences of
          his crime. Mr Pancks deemed it prudent to use all possible despatch in
          making off, though he was pursued by nothing but the sound of laughter
          in Bleeding Heart Yard, rippling through the air and making it ring
          again.

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

completion: Pancks is going nuts with guilt over Arthur and the investments. He keeps going over and over the numbers in his head - and on paper they should both have been very rich by now. The more he stresses, the more Casby annoys him. But he is used to his job and has been harassing the Bleeding Heart Yard tenants like before. One day, though, Casby calls Pancks into a meeting. He has a bunch of annoying demands: 1) get even more money out of the Bleeding Heart Yard people - squeeze them for all they're worth; 2) tell Flora to stop going to see Arthur in prison; and 3) stop going to see Arthur yourself while we're at it. Man, that's some evil boss! Pancks kind of says "oh" to all of this, but lets it go. As soon as Casby leaves, Pancks follows him. They both end up in Bleeding Heart Yard. Pancks calls Casby out in front of all the people there. He tells everyone that it's actually Casby and not Pancks who is the greedy one. He has no sympathy for the people and just wants to squeeze them dry. Pancks then tells them the only reason Casby looks so nice is because he has all that beautiful hair, which makes him look like a Biblical patriarch. Casby is too dull-witted to be able to respond to this. Suddenly, Pancks knocks Casby's hat off his head, whips out a pair of scissors, and hacks off all of his hair. Casby stands there, now a laughingstock.


prompt:
Chapter: The changes of a fevered room are slow and fluctuating; but the changes
of the fevered world are rapid and irrevocable.

It was Little Dorrit's lot to wait upon both kinds of change. The
Marshalsea walls, during a portion of every day, again embraced her in
their shadows as their child, while she thought for Clennam, worked for
him, watched him, and only left him, still to devote her utmost love and
care to him. Her part in the life outside the gate urged its pressing
claims upon her too, and her patience untiringly responded to them.
Here was Fanny, proud, fitful, whimsical, further advanced in that
disqualified state for going into society which had so much fretted
her on the evening of the tortoise-shell knife, resolved always to want
comfort, resolved not to be comforted, resolved to be deeply wronged,
    and resolved that nobody should have the audacity to think her so. Here
    was her brother, a weak, proud, tipsy, young old man, shaking from
    head to foot, talking as indistinctly as if some of the money he plumed
    himself upon had got into his mouth and couldn't be got out, unable to
    walk alone in any act of his life, and patronising the sister whom he
    selfishly loved (he always had that negative merit, ill-starred and
            ill-launched Tip!) because he suffered her to lead him. Here was Mrs
    Merdle in gauzy mourning--the original cap whereof had possibly been
    rent to pieces in a fit of grief, but had certainly yielded to a highly
    becoming article from the Parisian market--warring with Fanny foot to
    foot, and breasting her with her desolate bosom every hour in the day.
    Here was poor Mr Sparkler, not knowing how to keep the peace between
    them, but humbly inclining to the opinion that they could do no better
    than agree that they were both remarkably fine women, and that there was
    no nonsense about either of them--for which gentle recommendation they
    united in falling upon him frightfully. Then, too, here was Mrs General,
    got home from foreign parts, sending a Prune and a Prism by post every
    other day, demanding a new Testimonial by way of recommendation to some
    vacant appointment or other. Of which remarkable gentlewoman it may be
    finally observed, that there surely never was a gentlewoman of whose
    transcendent fitness for any vacant appointment on the face of this
earth, so many people were (as the warmth of her Testimonials evinced)
    so perfectly satisfied--or who was so very unfortunate in having a
    large circle of ardent and distinguished admirers, who never themselves
    happened to want her in any capacity.

    On the first crash of the eminent Mr Merdle's decease, many important
    persons had been unable to determine whether they should cut Mrs Merdle,
    or comfort her. As it seemed, however, essential to the strength of
    their own case that they should admit her to have been cruelly deceived,
    they graciously made the admission, and continued to know her. It
    followed that Mrs Merdle, as a woman of fashion and good breeding who
    had been sacrificed to the wiles of a vulgar barbarian (for Mr Merdle
            was found out from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, the
            moment he was found out in his pocket), must be actively championed by
    her order for her order's sake. She returned this fealty by causing it
    to be understood that she was even more incensed against the felonious
    shade of the deceased than anybody else was; thus, on the whole, she
    came out of her furnace like a wise woman, and did exceedingly well.

    Mr Sparkler's lordship was fortunately one of those shelves on which a
    gentleman is considered to be put away for life, unless there should be
    reasons for hoisting him up with the Barnacle crane to a more lucrative
    height. That patriotic servant accordingly stuck to his colours (the
            Standard of four Quarterings), and was a perfect Nelson in respect
    of nailing them to the mast. On the profits of his intrepidity, Mrs
    Sparkler and Mrs Merdle, inhabiting different floors of the genteel
    little temple of inconvenience to which the smell of the day before
    yesterday's soup and coach-horses was as constant as Death to man,
    arrayed themselves to fight it out in the lists of Society, sworn
    rivals. And Little Dorrit, seeing all these things as they developed
    themselves, could not but wonder, anxiously, into what back corner of
    the genteel establishment Fanny's children would be poked by-and-by, and
    who would take care of those unborn little victims.

    Arthur being far too ill to be spoken with on subjects of emotion or
    anxiety, and his recovery greatly depending on the repose into which
    his weakness could be hushed, Little Dorrit's sole reliance during this
    heavy period was on Mr Meagles. He was still abroad; but she had written
    to him through his daughter, immediately after first seeing Arthur in
    the Marshalsea and since, confiding her uneasiness to him on the points
    on which she was most anxious, but especially on one. To that one,
    the continued absence of Mr Meagles abroad, instead of his comforting
    presence in the Marshalsea, was referable.

    Without disclosing the precise nature of the documents that had fallen
    into Rigaud's hands, Little Dorrit had confided the general outline of
    that story to Mr Meagles, to whom she had also recounted his fate. The
    old cautious habits of the scales and scoop at once showed Mr Meagles
    the importance of recovering the original papers; wherefore he wrote
    back to Little Dorrit, strongly confirming her in the solicitude she
    expressed on that head, and adding that he would not come over to
    England 'without making some attempt to trace them out.'

    By this time Mr Henry Gowan had made up his mind that it would be
    agreeable to him not to know the Meagleses. He was so considerate as to
    lay no injunctions on his wife in that particular; but he mentioned
    to Mr Meagles that personally they did not appear to him to get on
    together, and that he thought it would be a good thing if--politely, and
    without any scene, or anything of that sort--they agreed that they were
    the best fellows in the world, but were best apart. Poor Mr Meagles, who
    was already sensible that he did not advance his daughter's happiness by
    being constantly slighted in her presence, said 'Good, Henry! You are
    my Pet's husband; you have displaced me, in the course of nature; if
    you wish it, good!' This arrangement involved the contingent advantage,
    which perhaps Henry Gowan had not foreseen, that both Mr and Mrs
    Meagles were more liberal than before to their daughter, when their
    communication was only with her and her young child: and that his high
    spirit found itself better provided with money, without being under the
    degrading necessity of knowing whence it came.

    Mr Meagles, at such a period, naturally seized an occupation with great
    ardour. He knew from his daughter the various towns which Rigaud had
    been haunting, and the various hotels at which he had been living for
    some time back. The occupation he set himself was to visit these with
    all discretion and speed, and, in the event of finding anywhere that he
    had left a bill unpaid, and a box or parcel behind, to pay such bill,
    and bring away such box or parcel.

    With no other attendant than Mother, Mr Meagles went upon his
    pilgrimage, and encountered a number of adventures. Not the least of his
    difficulties was, that he never knew what was said to him, and that he
    pursued his inquiries among people who never knew what he said to them.
    Still, with an unshaken confidence that the English tongue was somehow
    the mother tongue of the whole world, only the people were too stupid
    to know it, Mr Meagles harangued innkeepers in the most voluble manner,
    entered into loud explanations of the most complicated sort, and utterly
    renounced replies in the native language of the respondents, on the
    ground that they were 'all bosh.' Sometimes interpreters were called
    in; whom Mr Meagles addressed in such idiomatic terms of speech, as
    instantly to extinguish and shut up--which made the matter worse. On a
    balance of the account, however, it may be doubted whether he lost much;
    for, although he found no property, he found so many debts and various
    associations of discredit with the proper name, which was the only word
    he made intelligible, that he was almost everywhere overwhelmed with
    injurious accusations. On no fewer than four occasions the police
    were called in to receive denunciations of Mr Meagles as a Knight of
    Industry, a good-for-nothing, and a thief, all of which opprobrious
    language he bore with the best temper (having no idea what it meant),
    and was in the most ignominious manner escorted to steam-boats and
    public carriages, to be got rid of, talking all the while, like a
    cheerful and fluent Briton as he was, with Mother under his arm.

    But, in his own tongue, and in his own head, Mr Meagles was a clear,
    shrewd, persevering man. When he had 'worked round,' as he called it, to
    Paris in his pilgrimage, and had wholly failed in it so far, he was not
    disheartened. 'The nearer to England I follow him, you see, Mother,'
    argued Mr Meagles, 'the nearer I am likely to come to the papers,
    whether they turn up or no. Because it is only reasonable to conclude
    that he would deposit them somewhere where they would be safe from
    people over in England, and where they would yet be accessible to
    himself, don't you see?'

    At Paris Mr Meagles found a letter from Little Dorrit, lying waiting for
    him; in which she mentioned that she had been able to talk for a minute
    or two with Mr Clennam about this man who was no more; and that when she
    told Mr Clennam that his friend Mr Meagles, who was on his way to see
    him, had an interest in ascertaining something about the man if he
    could, he had asked her to tell Mr Meagles that he had been known
    to Miss Wade, then living in such a street at Calais. 'Oho!' said Mr
    Meagles.

    As soon afterwards as might be in those Diligence days, Mr Meagles
    rang the cracked bell at the cracked gate, and it jarred open, and the
    peasant-woman stood in the dark doorway, saying, 'Ice-say! Seer! Who?'
    In acknowledgment of whose address, Mr Meagles murmured to himself that
    there was some sense about these Calais people, who really did know
    something of what you and themselves were up to; and returned, 'Miss
    Wade, my dear.' He was then shown into the presence of Miss Wade.

    'It's some time since we met,' said Mr Meagles, clearing his throat; 'I
    hope you have been pretty well, Miss Wade?'

    Without hoping that he or anybody else had been pretty well, Miss Wade
    asked him to what she was indebted for the honour of seeing him again?
    Mr Meagles, in the meanwhile, glanced all round the room without
    observing anything in the shape of a box.

    'Why, the truth is, Miss Wade,' said Mr Meagles, in a comfortable,
    managing, not to say coaxing voice, 'it is possible that you may be able
    to throw a light upon a little something that is at present dark. Any
    unpleasant bygones between us are bygones, I hope. Can't be helped now.
    You recollect my daughter? Time changes so! A mother!'

    In his innocence, Mr Meagles could not have struck a worse key-note. He
    paused for any expression of interest, but paused in vain.

    'That is not the subject you wished to enter on?' she said, after a cold
    silence.

    'No, no,' returned Mr Meagles. 'No. I thought your good nature might--'

    'I thought you knew,' she interrupted, with a smile, 'that my good
    nature is not to be calculated upon?'

    'Don't say so,' said Mr Meagles; 'you do yourself an injustice. However,
    to come to the point.' For he was sensible of having gained nothing
    by approaching it in a roundabout way. 'I have heard from my friend
    Clennam, who, you will be sorry to hear, has been and still is very
    ill--'

    He paused again, and again she was silent.

    '--that you had some knowledge of one Blandois, lately killed in London
    by a violent accident. Now, don't mistake me! I know it was a slight
    knowledge,' said Mr Meagles, dexterously forestalling an angry
    interruption which he saw about to break. 'I am fully aware of that. It
    was a slight knowledge, I know. But the question is,' Mr Meagles's voice
    here became comfortable again, 'did he, on his way to England last time,
    leave a box of papers, or a bundle of papers, or some papers or other in
    some receptacle or other--any papers--with you: begging you to allow him
    to leave them here for a short time, until he wanted them?'

    'The question is?' she repeated. 'Whose question is?'

    'Mine,' said Mr Meagles. 'And not only mine but Clennam's question, and
    other people's question. Now, I am sure,' continued Mr Meagles, whose
    heart was overflowing with Pet, 'that you can't have any unkind feeling
    towards my daughter; it's impossible. Well! It's her question, too;
    being one in which a particular friend of hers is nearly interested.
    So here I am, frankly to say that is the question, and to ask, Now, did
    he?'

    'Upon my word,' she returned, 'I seem to be a mark for everybody who
    knew anything of a man I once in my life hired, and paid, and dismissed,
    to aim their questions at!'

    'Now, don't,' remonstrated Mr Meagles, 'don't! Don't take offence,
    because it's the plainest question in the world, and might be asked
    of any one. The documents I refer to were not his own, were wrongfully
    obtained, might at some time or other be troublesome to an innocent
    person to have in keeping, and are sought by the people to whom they
    really belong. He passed through Calais going to London, and there were
    reasons why he should not take them with him then, why he should wish
    to be able to put his hand upon them readily, and why he should distrust
    leaving them with people of his own sort. Did he leave them here? I
    declare if I knew how to avoid giving you offence, I would take any
    pains to do it. I put the question personally, but there's nothing
    personal in it. I might put it to any one; I have put it already to many
    people. Did he leave them here? Did he leave anything here?'

    'No.'

    'Then unfortunately, Miss Wade, you know nothing about them?'

    'I know nothing about them. I have now answered your unaccountable
    question. He did not leave them here, and I know nothing about them.'

    'There!' said Mr Meagles rising. 'I am sorry for it; that's over; and I
    hope there is not much harm done.--Tattycoram well, Miss Wade?'

    'Harriet well? O yes!'

    'I have put my foot in it again,' said Mr Meagles, thus corrected. 'I
    can't keep my foot out of it here, it seems. Perhaps, if I had thought
    twice about it, I might never have given her the jingling name. But,
    when one means to be good-natured and sportive with young people, one
    doesn't think twice. Her old friend leaves a kind word for her, Miss
    Wade, if you should think proper to deliver it.'

    She said nothing as to that; and Mr Meagles, taking his honest face out
    of the dull room, where it shone like a sun, took it to the Hotel where
    he had left Mrs Meagles, and where he made the Report: 'Beaten, Mother;
    no effects!' He took it next to the London Steam Packet, which sailed in
    the night; and next to the Marshalsea.

    The faithful John was on duty when Father and Mother Meagles presented
    themselves at the wicket towards nightfall. Miss Dorrit was not there
    then, he said; but she had been there in the morning, and invariably
    came in the evening. Mr Clennam was slowly mending; and Maggy and Mrs
    Plornish and Mr Baptist took care of him by turns. Miss Dorrit was sure
    to come back that evening before the bell rang. There was the room the
    Marshal had lent her, up-stairs, in which they could wait for her, if
    they pleased. Mistrustful that it might be hazardous to Arthur to see
    him without preparation, Mr Meagles accepted the offer; and they were
    left shut up in the room, looking down through its barred window into
    the jail.

    The cramped area of the prison had such an effect on Mrs Meagles that
    she began to weep, and such an effect on Mr Meagles that he began to
    gasp for air. He was walking up and down the room, panting, and making
    himself worse by laboriously fanning himself with her handkerchief, when
    he turned towards the opening door.

    'Eh? Good gracious!' said Mr Meagles, 'this is not Miss Dorrit! Why,
    Mother, look! Tattycoram!'

    No other. And in Tattycoram's arms was an iron box some two feet square.
    Such a box had Affery Flintwinch seen, in the first of her dreams, going
    out of the old house in the dead of the night under Double's arm. This,
    Tattycoram put on the ground at her old master's feet: this, Tattycoram
    fell on her knees by, and beat her hands upon, crying half in exultation
    and half in despair, half in laughter and half in tears, 'Pardon, dear
    Master; take me back, dear Mistress; here it is!'

    'Tatty!' exclaimed Mr Meagles.

    'What you wanted!' said Tattycoram. 'Here it is! I was put in the next
    room not to see you. I heard you ask her about it, I heard her say she
    hadn't got it, I was there when he left it, and I took it at bedtime and
    brought it away. Here it is!'

    'Why, my girl,' cried Mr Meagles, more breathless than before, 'how did
    you come over?'

    'I came in the boat with you. I was sitting wrapped up at the other end.
    When you took a coach at the wharf, I took another coach and followed
    you here. She never would have given it up after what you had said to
    her about its being wanted; she would sooner have sunk it in the sea, or
    burnt it. But, here it is!'

    The glow and rapture that the girl was in, with her 'Here it is!'

    'She never wanted it to be left, I must say that for her; but he left
    it, and I knew well that after what you said, and after her denying
    it, she never would have given it up. But here it is! Dear Master, dear
    Mistress, take me back again, and give me back the dear old name! Let
    this intercede for me. Here it is!'

    Father and Mother Meagles never deserved their names better than when
    they took the headstrong foundling-girl into their protection again.

    'Oh! I have been so wretched,' cried Tattycoram, weeping much more,
    'always so unhappy, and so repentant! I was afraid of her from the first
    time I saw her. I knew she had got a power over me through understanding
    what was bad in me so well. It was a madness in me, and she could raise
    it whenever she liked. I used to think, when I got into that state, that
    people were all against me because of my first beginning; and the kinder
    they were to me, the worse fault I found in them. I made it out that
    they triumphed above me, and that they wanted to make me envy them, when
    I know--when I even knew then--that they never thought of such a thing.
    And my beautiful young mistress not so happy as she ought to have been,
    and I gone away from her! Such a brute and a wretch as she must think
    me! But you'll say a word to her for me, and ask her to be as forgiving
    as you two are? For I am not so bad as I was,' pleaded Tattycoram; 'I am
    bad enough, but not so bad as I was, indeed. I have had Miss Wade
    before me all this time, as if it was my own self grown ripe--turning
    everything the wrong way, and twisting all good into evil. I have had
    her before me all this time, finding no pleasure in anything but keeping
    me as miserable, suspicious, and tormenting as herself. Not that she had
    much to do, to do that,' cried Tattycoram, in a closing great burst of
    distress, 'for I was as bad as bad could be. I only mean to say, that,
    after what I have gone through, I hope I shall never be quite so bad
    again, and that I shall get better by very slow degrees. I'll try very
    hard. I won't stop at five-and-twenty, sir, I'll count five-and-twenty
    hundred, five-and-twenty thousand!'

    Another opening of the door, and Tattycoram subsided, and Little Dorrit
    came in, and Mr Meagles with pride and joy produced the box, and her
    gentle face was lighted up with grateful happiness and joy. The secret
    was safe now! She could keep her own part of it from him; he should
    never know of her loss; in time to come he should know all that was of
    import to himself; but he should never know what concerned her only.
    That was all passed, all forgiven, all forgotten.

    'Now, my dear Miss Dorrit,' said Mr Meagles; 'I am a man of business--or
    at least was--and I am going to take my measures promptly, in that
    character. Had I better see Arthur to-night?'

    'I think not to-night. I will go to his room and ascertain how he is.
    But I think it will be better not to see him to-night.'

    'I am much of your opinion, my dear,' said Mr Meagles, 'and therefore
    I have not been any nearer to him than this dismal room. Then I shall
    probably not see him for some little time to come. But I'll explain what
    I mean when you come back.'

    She left the room. Mr Meagles, looking through the bars of the window,
    saw her pass out of the Lodge below him into the prison-yard. He said
    gently, 'Tattycoram, come to me a moment, my good girl.'

    She went up to the window.

    'You see that young lady who was here just now--that little, quiet,
    fragile figure passing along there, Tatty? Look. The people stand out
    of the way to let her go by. The men--see the poor, shabby fellows--pull
    off their hats to her quite politely, and now she glides in at that
    doorway. See her, Tattycoram?'

    'Yes, sir.'

    'I have heard tell, Tatty, that she was once regularly called the child
    of this place. She was born here, and lived here many years. I can't
    breathe here. A doleful place to be born and bred in, Tattycoram?'

    'Yes indeed, sir!'

    'If she had constantly thought of herself, and settled with herself that
    everybody visited this place upon her, turned it against her, and cast
    it at her, she would have led an irritable and probably an useless
    existence. Yet I have heard tell, Tattycoram, that her young life has
    been one of active resignation, goodness, and noble service. Shall I
    tell you what I consider those eyes of hers, that were here just now, to
    have always looked at, to get that expression?'

    'Yes, if you please, sir.'

    'Duty, Tattycoram. Begin it early, and do it well; and there is no
    antecedent to it, in any origin or station, that will tell against us
    with the Almighty, or with ourselves.'

    They remained at the window, Mother joining them and pitying the
    prisoners, until she was seen coming back. She was soon in the room, and
    recommended that Arthur, whom she had left calm and composed, should not
    be visited that night.

    'Good!' said Mr Meagles, cheerily. 'I have not a doubt that's best. I
    shall trust my remembrances then, my sweet nurse, in your hands, and I
    well know they couldn't be in better. I am off again to-morrow morning.'

    Little Dorrit, surprised, asked him where?

    'My dear,' said Mr Meagles, 'I can't live without breathing. This place
    has taken my breath away, and I shall never get it back again until
    Arthur is out of this place.'

    'How is that a reason for going off again to-morrow morning?'

    'You shall understand,' said Mr Meagles. 'To-night we three will put up
    at a City Hotel. To-morrow morning, Mother and Tattycoram will go down
    to Twickenham, where Mrs Tickit, sitting attended by Dr Buchan in the
    parlour-window, will think them a couple of ghosts; and I shall go
    abroad again for Doyce. We must have Dan here. Now, I tell you, my love,
    it's of no use writing and planning and conditionally speculating upon
    this and that and the other, at uncertain intervals and distances; we
    must have Doyce here. I devote myself at daybreak to-morrow morning, to
    bringing Doyce here. It's nothing to me to go and find him. I'm an old
    traveller, and all foreign languages and customs are alike to me--I
    never understand anything about any of 'em. Therefore I can't be put
    to any inconvenience. Go at once I must, it stands to reason; because
    I can't live without breathing freely; and I can't breathe freely until
    Arthur is out of this Marshalsea. I am stifled at the present moment,
    and have scarcely breath enough to say this much, and to carry this
    precious box down-stairs for you.'

    They got into the street as the bell began to ring, Mr Meagles carrying
    the box. Little Dorrit had no conveyance there: which rather surprised
    him. He called a coach for her and she got into it, and he placed the
    box beside her when she was seated. In her joy and gratitude she kissed
    his hand.

    'I don't like that, my dear,' said Mr Meagles. 'It goes against my
    feeling of what's right, that _you_ should do homage to _me_--at the
    Marshalsea Gate.'

    She bent forward, and kissed his cheek.

    'You remind me of the days,' said Mr Meagles, suddenly drooping--'but
    she's very fond of him, and hides his faults, and thinks that no
    one sees them--and he certainly is well connected and of a very good
    family!'

    It was the only comfort he had in the loss of his daughter, and if he
    made the most of it, who could blame him?

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

completion: After Merdle's suicide, Fanny, Sparkler, and Mrs. Merdle are now forced to live together on Sparkler's salary from his Circumlocution Office job. Which is fine - except they've become very accustomed to being super-rich, and now they're just snobby middle class. Also, Fanny and Mrs. Merdle do nothing but fight. Amy tells Meagles briefly some of what was in the Blandois documents, and he recommends trying to find and secure the originals. Then Henry Gowan tells his father-in-law that he wishes to never have anything to do with him, and so the Meagleses interact only with Pet. The whole thing is obviously stressful. Meagles volunteers to hunt down the papers and travels all over Europe. Finally he gets a tip about Blandois's connection to Miss Wade, and he tracks her down in Calais. She denies having the papers and refuses to deal with Meagles. She takes everything he says the wrong way and is her normal cold, unfeeling self. Just as the Meagleses have given up and returned to England, in their hotel they find... Tattycoram! She is holding the box with the documents! Tattycoram begs them to take her back and says that Miss Wade had the documents the whole time but didn't want to give them up. She tells them that she realized Miss Wade's life was her future if she couldn't figure out a way to stop being so angry about her birth and her station in life. They come to see Amy, and Meagles tells her that he's leaving the next day to find and bring back to London... Doyce!


prompt:
Chapter: On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but otherwise
restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On a healthy autumn
day; when the golden fields had been reaped and ploughed again, when the
summer fruits had ripened and waned, when the green perspectives of hops
had been laid low by the busy pickers, when the apples clustering in the
orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson
among the yellowing foliage. Already in the woods, glimpses of the hardy
winter that was coming were to be caught through unaccustomed openings
among the boughs where the prospect shone defined and clear, free from
the bloom of the drowsy summer weather, which had rested on it as the
bloom lies on the plum. So, from the seashore the ocean was no longer to
be seen lying asleep in the heat, but its thousand sparkling eyes were
open, and its whole breadth was in joyful animation, from the cool sand
on the beach to the little sails on the horizon, drifting away like
autumn-tinted leaves that had drifted from the trees.

Changeless and barren, looking ignorantly at all the seasons with its
fixed, pinched face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of
any of these beauties on it. Blossom what would, its bricks and bars
bore uniformly the same dead crop. Yet Clennam, listening to the voice
as it read to him, heard in it all that great Nature was doing, heard in
it all the soothing songs she sings to man. At no Mother's knee but hers
had he ever dwelt in his youth on hopeful promises, on playful fancies,
    on the harvests of tenderness and humility that lie hidden in the
    early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the oaks of retreat from
    blighting winds, that have the germs of their strong roots in nursery
    acorns. But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were
    memories of an old feeling of such things, and echoes of every merciful
    and loving whisper that had ever stolen to him in his life.

    When the voice stopped, he put his hand over his eyes, murmuring that
    the light was strong upon them.

    Little Dorrit put the book by, and presently arose quietly to shade
    the window. Maggy sat at her needlework in her old place. The light
    softened, Little Dorrit brought her chair closer to his side.

    'This will soon be over now, dear Mr Clennam. Not only are Mr Doyce's
    letters to you so full of friendship and encouragement, but Mr Rugg says
    his letters to him are so full of help, and that everybody (now a little
            anger is past) is so considerate, and speaks so well of you, that it
    will soon be over now.'

    'Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!'

    'You praise me far too much. And yet it is such an exquisite pleasure
    to me to hear you speak so feelingly, and to--and to see,' said Little
    Dorrit, raising her eyes to his, 'how deeply you mean it, that I cannot
    say Don't.'

    He lifted her hand to his lips.

    'You have been here many, many times, when I have not seen you, Little
    Dorrit?'

    'Yes, I have been here sometimes when I have not come into the room.'

    'Very often?'

    'Rather often,' said Little Dorrit, timidly.

    'Every day?'

    'I think,' said Little Dorrit, after hesitating, 'that I have been here
    at least twice every day.'

    He might have released the little light hand after fervently kissing it
    again; but that, with a very gentle lingering where it was, it seemed to
    court being retained. He took it in both of his, and it lay softly on his
    breast.

    'Dear Little Dorrit, it is not my imprisonment only that will soon be
    over. This sacrifice of you must be ended. We must learn to part again,
    and to take our different ways so wide asunder. You have not forgotten
    what we said together, when you came back?'

    'O no, I have not forgotten it. But something has been--You feel quite
    strong to-day, don't you?'

    'Quite strong.'

    The hand he held crept up a little nearer his face.

    'Do you feel quite strong enough to know what a great fortune I have
    got?'

    'I shall be very glad to be told. No fortune can be too great or good
    for Little Dorrit.'

    'I have been anxiously waiting to tell you. I have been longing and
    longing to tell you. You are sure you will not take it?'

    'Never!'

    'You are quite sure you will not take half of it?'

    'Never, dear Little Dorrit!'

    As she looked at him silently, there was something in her affectionate
    face that he did not quite comprehend: something that could have broken
    into tears in a moment, and yet that was happy and proud.

    'You will be sorry to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor
    Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left but her husband's
    income. All that papa gave her when she married was lost as your money
    was lost. It was in the same hands, and it is all gone.'

    Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. 'I had hoped it might
    not be so bad,' he said: 'but I had feared a heavy loss there, knowing
    the connection between her husband and the defaulter.'

    'Yes. It is all gone. I am very sorry for Fanny; very, very, very sorry
    for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!'

    'Had _he_ property in the same hands?'

    'Yes! And it's all gone.--How much do you think my own great fortune
    is?'

    As Arthur looked at her inquiringly, with a new apprehension on him,
    she withdrew her hand, and laid her face down on the spot where it had
    rested.

    'I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. When
    papa came over to England, he confided everything he had to the same
    hands, and it is all swept away. O my dearest and best, are you quite
    sure you will not share my fortune with me now?'

    Locked in his arms, held to his heart, with his manly tears upon her own
    cheek, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its
    fellow-hand.

    'Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never any more, until the last!
    I never was rich before, I never was proud before, I never was happy
    before, I am rich in being taken by you, I am proud in having been
    resigned by you, I am happy in being with you in this prison, as I
    should be happy in coming back to it with you, if it should be the will
    of GOD, and comforting and serving you with all my love and truth. I am
    yours anywhere, everywhere! I love you dearly! I would rather pass my
    life here with you, and go out daily, working for our bread, than I
    would have the greatest fortune that ever was told, and be the greatest
    lady that ever was honoured. O, if poor papa may only know how blest at
    last my heart is, in this room where he suffered for so many years!'

    Maggy had of course been staring from the first, and had of course been
    crying her eyes out long before this. Maggy was now so overjoyed that,
    after hugging her little mother with all her might, she went down-stairs
    like a clog-hornpipe to find somebody or other to whom to impart her
    gladness. Whom should Maggy meet but Flora and Mr F.'s Aunt opportunely
    coming in? And whom else, as a consequence of that meeting, should
    Little Dorrit find waiting for herself, when, a good two or three hours
    afterwards, she went out?

    Flora's eyes were a little red, and she seemed rather out of spirits.
    Mr F.'s Aunt was so stiffened that she had the appearance of being past
    bending by any means short of powerful mechanical pressure. Her bonnet
    was cocked up behind in a terrific manner; and her stony reticule was as
    rigid as if it had been petrified by the Gorgon's head, and had got it
    at that moment inside. With these imposing attributes, Mr F.'s Aunt,
    publicly seated on the steps of the Marshal's official residence, had
    been for the two or three hours in question a great boon to the younger
    inhabitants of the Borough, whose sallies of humour she had considerably
    flushed herself by resenting at the point of her umbrella, from time to
    time.

    'Painfully aware, Miss Dorrit, I am sure,' said Flora, 'that to propose
    an adjournment to any place to one so far removed by fortune and so
    courted and caressed by the best society must ever appear intruding
    even if not a pie-shop far below your present sphere and a back-parlour
    though a civil man but if for the sake of Arthur--cannot overcome it
    more improper now than ever late Doyce and Clennam--one last remark I
    might wish to make one last explanation I might wish to offer perhaps
    your good nature might excuse under pretence of three kidney ones the
    humble place of conversation.'

    Rightly interpreting this rather obscure speech, Little Dorrit returned
    that she was quite at Flora's disposition. Flora accordingly led the
    way across the road to the pie-shop in question: Mr F.'s Aunt stalking
    across in the rear, and putting herself in the way of being run over,
    with a perseverance worthy of a better cause.

    When the 'three kidney ones,' which were to be a blind to the
    conversation, were set before them on three little tin platters, each
    kidney one ornamented with a hole at the top, into which the civil man
    poured hot gravy out of a spouted can as if he were feeding three lamps,
    Flora took out her pocket-handkerchief.

    'If Fancy's fair dreams,' she began, 'have ever pictured that when
    Arthur--cannot overcome it pray excuse me--was restored to freedom even
    a pie as far from flaky as the present and so deficient in kidney as to
    be in that respect like a minced nutmeg might not prove unacceptable if
    offered by the hand of true regard such visions have for ever fled
    and all is cancelled but being aware that tender relations are in
    contemplation beg to state that I heartily wish well to both and find
    no fault with either not the least, it may be withering to know that ere
    the hand of Time had made me much less slim than formerly and dreadfully
    red on the slightest exertion particularly after eating I well know when
    it takes the form of a rash, it might have been and was not through the
    interruption of parents and mental torpor succeeded until the mysterious
    clue was held by Mr F. still I would not be ungenerous to either and I
    heartily wish well to both.'

    Little Dorrit took her hand, and thanked her for all her old kindness.

    'Call it not kindness,' returned Flora, giving her an honest kiss, 'for
    you always were the best and dearest little thing that ever was if I
    may take the liberty and even in a money point of view a saving being
    Conscience itself though I must add much more agreeable than mine ever
    was to me for though not I hope more burdened than other people's yet
    I have always found it far readier to make one uncomfortable than
    comfortable and evidently taking a greater pleasure in doing it but I am
    wandering, one hope I wish to express ere yet the closing scene draws
    in and it is that I do trust for the sake of old times and old sincerity
    that Arthur will know that I didn't desert him in his misfortunes but
    that I came backwards and forwards constantly to ask if I could do
    anything for him and that I sat in the pie-shop where they very civilly
    fetched something warm in a tumbler from the hotel and really very nice
    hours after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing
    it.'

    Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great
    advantage.

    'Over and above which,' said Flora, 'I earnestly beg you as the dearest
    thing that ever was if you'll still excuse the familiarity from one who
    moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don't
    know after all whether it wasn't all nonsense between us though pleasant
    at the time and trying too and certainly Mr F. did work a change and
    the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without
    weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent
    of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I
    am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had
    brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have
    been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where
    papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved
    since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something
    of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not
    my character nor ill-will though many faults.'

    Without having been able closely to follow Mrs Finching through this
    labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted
    the trust.

    'The withered chaplet my dear,' said Flora, with great enjoyment, 'is
    then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside
    down upon its what's-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness
    call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes
    of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the
    pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will for
    ever say Adieu!'

    Mr F.'s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had
    been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her
    first assumption of that public position on the Marshal's steps, took
    the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe
    to the relict of her late nephew.

    'Bring him for'ard, and I'll chuck him out o' winder!'

    Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that
    they were going home to dinner. Mr F.'s Aunt persisted in replying,
    'Bring him for'ard and I'll chuck him out o' winder!' Having reiterated
    this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of
    defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.'s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in
    the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until
    such time as 'he' should have been 'brought for'ard,' and the chucking
    portion of his destiny accomplished.

    In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she
    had not seen Mr F.'s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that
    she would find it necessary to remain there 'hours perhaps,' until the
    inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her
    best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with
    the kindest feeling on both sides.

    Mr F.'s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in
    need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the
    tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the
    aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the
    pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good
    humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an
    idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the
    neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the
    pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour,
    declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons
    of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned
    so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very
    pressing in his proposals that Mr F.'s Aunt should be removed. A
    conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint
    efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last
    induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of
    the window, and demanding to have him 'brought for'ard' for the purpose
    originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful
    glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably
    consistent female intended by 'him,' Arthur Clennam. This, however, is
    mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr
    F.'s Aunt's mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was
    brought forward, will never be positively known.

    The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea
    now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.

    One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning
    ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new
    love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so
    true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.

    'Dear Arthur,' said her delighted voice outside the door, 'I have some
    one here. May I bring some one in?'

    He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered
    'Yes,' and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr
    Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a
    sun-browned and jolly father.

    'Now I am all right,' said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. 'Now it's
    over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me
    before.'

    'I did,' said Arthur; 'but Amy told me--'

    'Little Dorrit. Never any other name.' (It was she who whispered it.)

    '--But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further
    explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.'

    'And now you see me, my boy,' said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand
    stoutly; 'and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation.
    The fact is, I _was_ here--came straight to you from the Allongers
    and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this
    day,--but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start
    off again to catch Doyce.'

    'Poor Doyce!' sighed Arthur.

    'Don't call him names that he don't deserve,' said Mr Meagles. '_He's_
    not poor; _he's_ doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over
    there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He
    has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don't want things done and
    find a man to do 'em, that man's off his legs; but where they do want
    things done and find a man to do 'em, that man's on his legs. You won't
    have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell
    you, Dan has done without 'em!'

    'What a load you take from my mind!' cried Arthur. 'What happiness you
    give me!'

    'Happiness?' retorted Mr Meagles. 'Don't talk about happiness till you
    see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over
    yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He's no
    public offender, bless you, now! He's medalled and ribboned, and starred
    and crossed, and I don't-know-what all'd, like a born nobleman. But we
    mustn't talk about that over here.'

    'Why not?'

    'Oh, egad!' said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, 'he must
    hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They
    won't do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the
    Manger--won't give her children such distinctions herself, and won't
    allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no,
    Dan!' said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. 'That won't do here!'

    'If you had brought me (except for Doyce's sake) twice what I have
    lost,' cried Arthur, 'you would not have given me the pleasure that you
    give me in this news.'

    'Why, of course, of course,' assented Mr Meagles. 'Of course I know
    that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with it in the first
    burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. Ran
    against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women's nightcaps a
    great deal too big for 'em, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of
    incoherent races. _You_ know 'em! Well! He was coming straight to me,
    and I was going to him, and so we came back together.'

    'Doyce in England!' exclaimed Arthur.

    'There!' said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. 'I am the worst man
    in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don't know what I should
    have done if I had been in the diplomatic line--right, perhaps! The long
    and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight.
    And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my
    plain answer is--here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!'

    Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and
    said the rest for himself.

    'There are only three branches of my subject, my dear Clennam,' said
    Doyce, proceeding to mould them severally, with his plastic thumb, on
    the palm of his hand, 'and they're soon disposed of. First, not a word
    more from you about the past. There was an error in your calculations.
    I know what that is. It affects the whole machine, and failure is the
    consequence. You will profit by the failure, and will avoid it another
    time. I have done a similar thing myself, in construction, often. Every
    failure teaches a man something, if he will learn; and you are too
    sensible a man not to learn from this failure. So much for firstly.
    Secondly. I was sorry you should have taken it so heavily to heart, and
    reproached yourself so severely; I was travelling home night and day
    to put matters right, with the assistance of our friend, when I fell in
    with our friend as he has informed you. Thirdly. We two agreed, that,
    after what you had undergone, after your distress of mind, and after
    your illness, it would be a pleasant surprise if we could so far keep
    quiet as to get things perfectly arranged without your knowledge, and
    then come and say that all the affairs were smooth, that everything was
    right, that the business stood in greater want of you than ever it did,
    and that a new and prosperous career was opened before you and me as
    partners. That's thirdly. But you know we always make an allowance for
    friction, and so I have reserved space to close in. My dear Clennam,
    I thoroughly confide in you; you have it in your power to be quite as
    useful to me as I have, or have had, it in my power to be useful to you;
    your old place awaits you, and wants you very much; there is nothing to
    detain you here one half-hour longer.'

    There was silence, which was not broken until Arthur had stood for some
    time at the window with his back towards them, and until his little wife
    that was to be had gone to him and stayed by him.

    'I made a remark a little while ago,' said Daniel Doyce then, 'which I
    am inclined to think was an incorrect one. I said there was nothing
    to detain you here, Clennam, half an hour longer. Am I mistaken in
    supposing that you would rather not leave here till to-morrow morning?
    Do I know, without being very wise, where you would like to go, direct
    from these walls and from this room?'

    'You do,' returned Arthur. 'It has been our cherished purpose.'

    'Very well!' said Doyce. 'Then, if this young lady will do me the honour
    of regarding me for four-and-twenty hours in the light of a father, and
    will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul's Churchyard, I dare say
    I know what we want to get there.'

    Little Dorrit and he went out together soon afterwards, and Mr Meagles
    lingered behind to say a word to his friend.

    'I think, Arthur, you will not want Mother and me in the morning and
    we will keep away. It might set Mother thinking about Pet; she's a
    soft-hearted woman. She's best at the Cottage, and I'll stay there and
    keep her company.'

    With that they parted for the time. And the day ended, and the night
    ended, and the morning came, and Little Dorrit, simply dressed as usual
    and having no one with her but Maggy, came into the prison with the
    sunshine. The poor room was a happy room that morning. Where in the
    world was there a room so full of quiet joy!

    'My dear love,' said Arthur. 'Why does Maggy light the fire? We shall be
    gone directly.'

    'I asked her to do it. I have taken such an odd fancy. I want you to
    burn something for me.'

    'What?'

    'Only this folded paper. If you will put it in the fire with your own
    hand, just as it is, my fancy will be gratified.'

    'Superstitious, darling Little Dorrit? Is it a charm?'

    'It is anything you like best, my own,' she answered, laughing with
    glistening eyes and standing on tiptoe to kiss him, 'if you will only
    humour me when the fire burns up.'

    So they stood before the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm about her
    waist, and the fire shining, as fire in that same place had often shone,
    in Little Dorrit's eyes. 'Is it bright enough now?' said Arthur. 'Quite
    bright enough now,' said Little Dorrit. 'Does the charm want any words
    to be said?' asked Arthur, as he held the paper over the flame. 'You can
    say (if you don't mind) "I love you!"' answered Little Dorrit. So he said
    it, and the paper burned away.

    They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though
    many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows. Only one face,
    familiar of old, was in the Lodge. When they had both accosted it, and
    spoken many kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her
    hand stretched out, saying, 'Good-bye, good John! I hope you will live
    very happy, dear!'

    Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George's Church,
    and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his paternal
    character. And there was Little Dorrit's old friend who had given her
    the Burial Register for a pillow; full of admiration that she should
    come back to them to be married, after all.

    And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted
    figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room
    where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage
    Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and
            Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary
    in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora
    gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground
    of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the
    moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had
    Flora the least signs of seclusion upon her, notwithstanding her recent
    declaration; but, on the contrary, was wonderfully smart, and enjoyed
    the ceremonies mightily, though in a fluttered way.

    Little Dorrit's old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and
    the clerk paused in taking off the good clergyman's surplice, and all
    the witnesses looked on with special interest. 'For, you see,' said
    Little Dorrit's old friend, 'this young lady is one of our curiosities,
    and has come now to the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in
    what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor,
    with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and she's now
    a-writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.'

    They all gave place when the signing was done, and Little Dorrit and her
    husband walked out of the church alone. They paused for a moment on the
    steps of the portico, looking at the fresh perspective of the street in
    the autumn morning sun's bright rays, and then went down.

    Went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness. Went down
    to give a mother's care, in the fulness of time, to Fanny's neglected
    children no less than to their own, and to leave that lady going into
    Society for ever and a day. Went down to give a tender nurse and friend
    to Tip for some few years, who was never vexed by the great exactions he
    made of her in return for the riches he might have given her if he had
    ever had them, and who lovingly closed his eyes upon the Marshalsea
    and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring
    streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine
    and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and
    the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar.

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

completion: Amy takes care of Arthur, who is slowly recovering from his illness in jail. She keeps playfully offering him half of her fortune. He says no every time. Finally she asks him if he wants to know how much her fortune actually is. Ready? It's... nothing at all. Dorrit had given all his money to Merdle to invest, so there is nothing left. Arthur laughs and agrees now to share half of her fortune. She makes a nice little speech half-proposing to him and half-accepting a marriage proposal. At that moment Flora and Mr. F's Aunt come up the stairs. Amy tells them the good news that they are engaged. Flora asks Amy to go with her to a nearby cafe, where Flora makes a long flowery, nonsensical speech basically wishing them well and saying no hard feelings. Mr. F's Aunt, meanwhile, demands that Arthur be brought "for'ard, and I'll chuck him out o' winder!" . In a little while, Meagles comes to visit Arthur in jail for the first time. Meagles has news that Doyce is doing swimmingly in Russia. They love him over there and are psyched to have all of his inventions. They've given him medals and titles and honors, and he's made a heap of money. Then Meagles says, actually, here he is! Doyce is not at all mad at Arthur and says that mistakes are part of the learning process. Also, Meagles and Doyce tell Amy and Arthur that everything has been taken care of and that Arthur is free to go. He can have his old job back at Doyce & Clennam and everything will be just fine. Arthur and Amy decide to leave the next day, because first they want to... get married! The next morning Amy brings Arthur a piece of paper to burn in the fire before they go to church. Arthur doesn't know what it is, but we can assume that it's the codicil to the will that leaves Amy all that money. She decides to tell him about his own family when the time comes, but not about the money. They go to the same church where Amy spent the night with Maggy way back at the beginning of the book. They get married. And then they live quietly and peacefully ever after.


prompt:
Chapter: I was born a slave; but I never knew it till six years of happy childhood
had passed away. My father was a carpenter, and considered so intelligent
and skilful in his trade, that, when buildings out of the common line were
to be erected, he was sent for from long distances, to be head workman. On
condition of paying his mistress two hundred dollars a year, and supporting
himself, he was allowed to work at his trade, and manage his own affairs.
His strongest wish was to purchase his children; but, though he several
times offered his hard earnings for that purpose, he never succeeded. In
complexion my parents were a light shade of brownish yellow, and were
termed mulattoes. They lived together in a comfortable home; and, though we
were all slaves, I was so fondly shielded that I never dreamed I was a
piece of merchandise, trusted to them for safe keeping, and liable to be
demanded of them at any moment. I had one brother, William, who was two
years younger than myself--a bright, affectionate child. I had also a great
treasure in my maternal grandmother, who was a remarkable woman in many
respects. She was the daughter of a planter in South Carolina, who, at his
death, left her mother and his three children free, with money to go to St.
Augustine, where they had relatives. It was during the Revolutionary War;
and they were captured on their passage, carried back, and sold to
different purchasers. Such was the story my grandmother used to tell me;
but I do not remember all the particulars. She was a little girl when she
was captured and sold to the keeper of a large hotel. I have often heard
her tell how hard she fared during childhood. But as she grew older she
evinced so much intelligence, and was so faithful, that her master and
mistress could not help seeing it was for their interest to take care of
such a valuable piece of property. She became an indispensable personage in
the household, officiating in all capacities, from cook and wet nurse to
seamstress. She was much praised for her cooking; and her nice crackers
became so famous in the neighborhood that many people were desirous of
obtaining them. In consequence of numerous requests of this kind, she asked
permission of her mistress to bake crackers at night, after all the
household work was done; and she obtained leave to do it, provided she
would clothe herself and her children from the profits. Upon these terms,
after working hard all day for her mistress, she began her midnight
bakings, assisted by her two oldest children. The business proved
profitable; and each year she laid by a little, which was saved for a fund
to purchase her children. Her master died, and the property was divided
among his heirs. The widow had her dower in the hotel which she continued
to keep open. My grandmother remained in her service as a slave; but her
children were divided among her master's children. As she had five,
Benjamin, the youngest one, was sold, in order that each heir might have an
equal portion of dollars and cents. There was so little difference in our
ages that he seemed more like my brother than my uncle. He was a bright,
handsome lad, nearly white; for he inherited the complexion my grandmother
had derived from Anglo-Saxon ancestors. Though only ten years old, seven
hundred and twenty dollars were paid for him. His sale was a terrible blow
to my grandmother, but she was naturally hopeful, and she went to work with
renewed energy, trusting in time to be able to purchase some of her
children. She had laid up three hundred dollars, which her mistress one day
begged as a loan, promising to pay her soon. The reader probably knows that
no promise or writing given to a slave is legally binding; for, according
to Southern laws, a slave, _being_ property, can _hold_ no property. When
my grandmother lent her hard earnings to her mistress, she trusted solely
to her honor. The honor of a slaveholder to a slave!

To this good grandmother I was indebted for many comforts. My brother
Willie and I often received portions of the crackers, cakes, and preserves,
she made to sell; and after we ceased to be children we were indebted to
her for many more important services.

Such were the unusually fortunate circumstances of my early childhood. When
I was six years old, my mother died; and then, for the first time, I
learned, by the talk around me, that I was a slave. My mother's mistress
was the daughter of my grandmother's mistress. She was the foster sister of
my mother; they were both nourished at my grandmother's breast. In fact, my
mother had been weaned at three months old, that the babe of the mistress
might obtain sufficient food. They played together as children; and, when
they became women, my mother was a most faithful servant to her whiter
foster sister. On her death-bed her mistress promised that her children
should never suffer for any thing; and during her lifetime she kept her
word. They all spoke kindly of my dead mother, who had been a slave merely
in name, but in nature was noble and womanly. I grieved for her, and my
young mind was troubled with the thought who would now take care of me and
my little brother. I was told that my home was now to be with her mistress;
and I found it a happy one. No toilsome or disagreeable duties were imposed
on me. My mistress was so kind to me that I was always glad to do her
bidding, and proud to labor for her as much as my young years would permit.
I would sit by her side for hours, sewing diligently, with a heart as free
from care as that of any free-born white child. When she thought I was
tired, she would send me out to run and jump; and away I bounded, to gather
berries or flowers to decorate her room. Those were happy days--too happy
to last. The slave child had no thought for the morrow; but there came that
blight, which too surely waits on every human being born to be a chattel.

When I was nearly twelve years old, my kind mistress sickened and died. As
I saw the cheek grow paler, and the eye more glassy, how earnestly I prayed
in my heart that she might live! I loved her; for she had been almost like
a mother to me. My prayers were not answered. She died, and they buried her
in the little churchyard, where, day after day, my tears fell upon her
grave.

I was sent to spend a week with my grandmother. I was now old enough to
begin to think of the future; and again and again I asked myself what they
would do with me. I felt sure I should never find another mistress so kind
as the one who was gone. She had promised my dying mother that her children
should never suffer for any thing; and when I remembered that, and recalled
her many proofs of attachment to me, I could not help having some hopes
that she had left me free. My friends were almost certain it would be so.
They thought she would be sure to do it, on account of my mother's love and
faithful service. But, alas! we all know that the memory of a faithful
slave does not avail much to save her children from the auction block.

After a brief period of suspense, the will of my mistress was read, and we
learned that she had bequeathed me to her sister's daughter, a child of
five years old. So vanished our hopes. My mistress had taught me the
precepts of God's Word: "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
"Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them."
But I was her slave, and I suppose she did not recognize me as her
neighbor. I would give much to blot out from my memory that one great
wrong. As a child, I loved my mistress; and, looking back on the happy days
I spent with her, I try to think with less bitterness of this act of
injustice. While I was with her, she taught me to read and spell; and for
this privilege, which so rarely falls to the lot of a slave, I bless her
memory.

She possessed but few slaves; and at her death those were all distributed
among her relatives. Five of them were my grandmother's children, and had
shared the same milk that nourished her mother's children. Notwithstanding
my grandmother's long and faithful service to her owners, not one of her
children escaped the auction block. These God-breathing machines are no
more, in the sight of their masters, than the cotton they plant, or the
horses they tend.

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

completion: Childhood In the first chapter, Jacobs begins her narrative by explaining that she did not know she was a slave until she was six years old. Her father was a carpenter and she had a brother named William. She was very fond of her maternal grandmother, known as Aunt Marthy, who was a remarkable woman. She was indispensible in the household and became a well-loved personage in the community. Aunt Marthy had five children. Her youngest, Benjamin, was close in age to Harriet, so he was more like a brother than an uncle. When Harriet was six, her mother died. The mistress she worked for was a kind woman and Harriet went to stay with her. This was a pleasant time and Harriet was taught to read and write. Unfortunately, this woman died when Harriet was twelve. After a week the will was read, and it was determined that Harriet would go to the mistress's sister's daughter Emily Flint, who was five