prompt:
Chapter: When it became known to the Britons on the shore of the yellow Tiber
that their intelligent compatriot, Mr Sparkler, was made one of the
Lords of their Circumlocution Office, they took it as a piece of news
with which they had no nearer concern than with any other piece of
news--any other Accident or Offence--in the English papers. Some
laughed; some said, by way of complete excuse, that the post was
virtually a sinecure, and any fool who could spell his name was good
enough for it; some, and these the more solemn political oracles,
       said that Decimus did wisely to strengthen himself, and that the sole
       constitutional purpose of all places within the gift of Decimus, was,
       that Decimus _should_ strengthen himself. A few bilious Britons there were
       who would not subscribe to this article of faith; but their objection
       was purely theoretical. In a practical point of view, they listlessly
       abandoned the matter, as being the business of some other Britons
       unknown, somewhere, or nowhere. In like manner, at home, great numbers
       of Britons maintained, for as long as four-and-twenty consecutive hours,
       that those invisible and anonymous Britons 'ought to take it up;' and
       that if they quietly acquiesced in it, they deserved it. But of what
       class the remiss Britons were composed, and where the unlucky creatures
       hid themselves, and why they hid themselves, and how it constantly
       happened that they neglected their interests, when so many other Britons
       were quite at a loss to account for their not looking after those
       interests, was not, either upon the shore of the yellow Tiber or the
       shore of the black Thames, made apparent to men.

       Mrs Merdle circulated the news, as she received congratulations on it,
       with a careless grace that displayed it to advantage, as the setting
       displays the jewel. Yes, she said, Edmund had taken the place. Mr Merdle
       wished him to take it, and he had taken it. She hoped Edmund might like
       it, but really she didn't know. It would keep him in town a good
       deal, and he preferred the country. Still, it was not a disagreeable
       position--and it was a position. There was no denying that the thing
       was a compliment to Mr Merdle, and was not a bad thing for Edmund if he
       liked it. It was just as well that he should have something to do, and
       it was just as well that he should have something for doing it. Whether
       it would be more agreeable to Edmund than the army, remained to be seen.

       Thus the Bosom; accomplished in the art of seeming to make things of
       small account, and really enhancing them in the process. While Henry
       Gowan, whom Decimus had thrown away, went through the whole round of
       his acquaintance between the Gate of the People and the town of Albano,
       vowing, almost (but not quite) with tears in his eyes, that Sparkler was
       the sweetest-tempered, simplest-hearted, altogether most lovable jackass
       that ever grazed on the public common; and that only one circumstance
       could have delighted him (Gowan) more, than his (the beloved jackass's)
       getting this post, and that would have been his (Gowan's) getting it
       himself. He said it was the very thing for Sparkler. There was nothing
       to do, and he would do it charmingly; there was a handsome salary to
       draw, and he would draw it charmingly; it was a delightful, appropriate,
       capital appointment; and he almost forgave the donor his slight of
       himself, in his joy that the dear donkey for whom he had so great an
       affection was so admirably stabled. Nor did his benevolence stop here.
       He took pains, on all social occasions, to draw Mr Sparkler out, and
       make him conspicuous before the company; and, although the considerate
       action always resulted in that young gentleman's making a dreary and
       forlorn mental spectacle of himself, the friendly intention was not to
       be doubted.

       Unless, indeed, it chanced to be doubted by the object of Mr Sparkler's
       affections. Miss Fanny was now in the difficult situation of being
       universally known in that light, and of not having dismissed Mr
       Sparkler, however capriciously she used him. Hence, she was sufficiently
       identified with the gentleman to feel compromised by his being more than
       usually ridiculous; and hence, being by no means deficient in quickness,
       she sometimes came to his rescue against Gowan, and did him very good
       service. But, while doing this, she was ashamed of him, undetermined
       whether to get rid of him or more decidedly encourage him, distracted
       with apprehensions that she was every day becoming more and more
       immeshed in her uncertainties, and tortured by misgivings that Mrs
       Merdle triumphed in her distress. With this tumult in her mind, it is no
       subject for surprise that Miss Fanny came home one night in a state
       of agitation from a concert and ball at Mrs Merdle's house, and on her
       sister affectionately trying to soothe her, pushed that sister away from
       the toilette-table at which she sat angrily trying to cry, and declared
       with a heaving bosom that she detested everybody, and she wished she was
       dead.

       'Dear Fanny, what is the matter? Tell me.'

       'Matter, you little Mole,' said Fanny. 'If you were not the blindest of
       the blind, you would have no occasion to ask me. The idea of daring to
       pretend to assert that you have eyes in your head, and yet ask me what's
       the matter!'

       'Is it Mr Sparkler, dear?'

       'Mis-ter Spark-ler!' repeated Fanny, with unbounded scorn, as if he were
       the last subject in the Solar system that could possibly be near her
       mind. 'No, Miss Bat, it is not.'

       Immediately afterwards, she became remorseful for having called her
       sister names; declaring with sobs that she knew she made herself
       hateful, but that everybody drove her to it.

       'I don't think you are well to-night, dear Fanny.'

       'Stuff and nonsense!' replied the young lady, turning angry again; 'I am
       as well as you are. Perhaps I might say better, and yet make no boast of
       it.'

       Poor Little Dorrit, not seeing her way to the offering of any soothing
       words that would escape repudiation, deemed it best to remain quiet. At
       first, Fanny took this ill, too; protesting to her looking-glass, that
       of all the trying sisters a girl could have, she did think the most
       trying sister was a flat sister. That she knew she was at times a
       wretched temper; that she knew she made herself hateful; that when she
       made herself hateful, nothing would do her half the good as being told
       so; but that, being afflicted with a flat sister, she never _was_ told so,
       and the consequence resulted that she was absolutely tempted and
       goaded into making herself disagreeable. Besides (she angrily told
               her looking-glass), she didn't want to be forgiven. It was not a right
       example, that she should be constantly stooping to be forgiven by a
       younger sister. And this was the Art of it--that she was always being
       placed in the position of being forgiven, whether she liked it or not.
       Finally she burst into violent weeping, and, when her sister came and
       sat close at her side to comfort her, said, 'Amy, you're an Angel!'

       'But, I tell you what, my Pet,' said Fanny, when her sister's gentleness
       had calmed her, 'it now comes to this; that things cannot and shall not
       go on as they are at present going on, and that there must be an end of
       this, one way or another.'

       As the announcement was vague, though very peremptory, Little Dorrit
       returned, 'Let us talk about it.'

       'Quite so, my dear,' assented Fanny, as she dried her eyes. 'Let us talk
       about it. I am rational again now, and you shall advise me. _Will_ you
       advise me, my sweet child?'

       Even Amy smiled at this notion, but she said, 'I will, Fanny, as well as
       I can.'

       'Thank you, dearest Amy,' returned Fanny, kissing her. 'You are my
       anchor.'

       Having embraced her Anchor with great affection, Fanny took a bottle of
       sweet toilette water from the table, and called to her maid for a fine
       handkerchief. She then dismissed that attendant for the night, and went
       on to be advised; dabbing her eyes and forehead from time to time to
       cool them.

       'My love,' Fanny began, 'our characters and points of view are
       sufficiently different (kiss me again, my darling), to make it very
       probable that I shall surprise you by what I am going to say. What I am
       going to say, my dear, is, that notwithstanding our property, we labour,
       socially speaking, under disadvantages. You don't quite understand what
       I mean, Amy?'

       'I have no doubt I shall,' said Amy, mildly, 'after a few words more.'

       'Well, my dear, what I mean is, that we are, after all, newcomers into
       fashionable life.'

       'I am sure, Fanny,' Little Dorrit interposed in her zealous admiration,
       'no one need find that out in you.'

       'Well, my dear child, perhaps not,' said Fanny, 'though it's most kind
       and most affectionate in you, you precious girl, to say so.' Here she
       dabbed her sister's forehead, and blew upon it a little. 'But you are,'
       resumed Fanny, 'as is well known, the dearest little thing that ever
       was! To resume, my child. Pa is extremely gentlemanly and extremely well
       informed, but he is, in some trifling respects, a little different from
       other gentlemen of his fortune: partly on account of what he has gone
       through, poor dear: partly, I fancy, on account of its often running in
       his mind that other people are thinking about that, while he is talking
       to them. Uncle, my love, is altogether unpresentable. Though a dear
       creature to whom I am tenderly attached, he is, socially speaking,
       shocking. Edward is frightfully expensive and dissipated. I don't mean
       that there is anything ungenteel in that itself--far from it--but I
       do mean that he doesn't do it well, and that he doesn't, if I may
       so express myself, get the money's-worth in the sort of dissipated
       reputation that attaches to him.'

       'Poor Edward!' sighed Little Dorrit, with the whole family history in
       the sigh.

       'Yes. And poor you and me, too,' returned Fanny, rather sharply.
       'Very true! Then, my dear, we have no mother, and we have a Mrs General.
       And I tell you again, darling, that Mrs General, if I may reverse a
       common proverb and adapt it to her, is a cat in gloves who _will_
       catch mice. That woman, I am quite sure and confident, will be our
       mother-in-law.'

       'I can hardly think, Fanny--' Fanny stopped her.

       'Now, don't argue with me about it, Amy,' said she, 'because I know
       better.' Feeling that she had been sharp again, she dabbed her sister's
       forehead again, and blew upon it again. 'To resume once more, my dear.
       It then becomes a question with me (I am proud and spirited, Amy, as you
               very well know: too much so, I dare say) whether I shall make up my mind
       to take it upon myself to carry the family through.'

       'How?' asked her sister, anxiously.

       'I will not,' said Fanny, without answering the question, 'submit to
       be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General; and I will not submit to be, in any
       respect whatever, either patronised or tormented by Mrs Merdle.'

       Little Dorrit laid her hand upon the hand that held the bottle of sweet
       water, with a still more anxious look. Fanny, quite punishing her own
       forehead with the vehement dabs she now began to give it, fitfully went
       on.

       'That he has somehow or other, and how is of no consequence, attained a
       very good position, no one can deny. That it is a very good connection,
       no one can deny. And as to the question of clever or not clever, I doubt
       very much whether a clever husband would be suitable to me. I cannot
       submit. I should not be able to defer to him enough.'

       'O, my dear Fanny!' expostulated Little Dorrit, upon whom a kind of
       terror had been stealing as she perceived what her sister meant. 'If you
       loved any one, all this feeling would change. If you loved any one, you
       would no more be yourself, but you would quite lose and forget yourself
       in your devotion to him. If you loved him, Fanny--' Fanny had stopped
       the dabbing hand, and was looking at her fixedly.

       'O, indeed!' cried Fanny. 'Really? Bless me, how much some people know
       of some subjects! They say every one has a subject, and I certainly
       seem to have hit upon yours, Amy. There, you little thing, I was only in
       fun,' dabbing her sister's forehead; 'but don't you be a silly puss,
       and don't you think flightily and eloquently about degenerate
       impossibilities. There! Now, I'll go back to myself.'

       'Dear Fanny, let me say first, that I would far rather we worked for
       a scanty living again than I would see you rich and married to Mr
       Sparkler.'

       '_Let_ you say, my dear?' retorted Fanny. 'Why, of course, I will _let_
       you say anything. There is no constraint upon you, I hope. We are
       together to talk it over. And as to marrying Mr Sparkler, I have not the
       slightest intention of doing so to-night, my dear, or to-morrow morning
       either.'

       'But at some time?'

       'At no time, for anything I know at present,' answered Fanny, with
       indifference. Then, suddenly changing her indifference into a burning
       restlessness, she added, 'You talk about the clever men, you little
       thing! It's all very fine and easy to talk about the clever men; but
       where are they? _I_ don't see them anywhere near _me_!'

       'My dear Fanny, so short a time--'

       'Short time or long time,' interrupted Fanny. 'I am impatient of our
       situation. I don't like our situation, and very little would induce
       me to change it. Other girls, differently reared and differently
       circumstanced altogether, might wonder at what I say or may do. Let
       them. They are driven by their lives and characters; I am driven by
       mine.'

       'Fanny, my dear Fanny, you know that you have qualities to make you the
       wife of one very superior to Mr Sparkler.'

       'Amy, my dear Amy,' retorted Fanny, parodying her words, 'I know that I
       wish to have a more defined and distinct position, in which I can assert
       myself with greater effect against that insolent woman.'

       'Would you therefore--forgive my asking, Fanny--therefore marry her
       son?'

       'Why, perhaps,' said Fanny, with a triumphant smile. 'There may be many
       less promising ways of arriving at an end than that, my dear. That piece
       of insolence may think, now, that it would be a great success to get her
       son off upon me, and shelve me. But, perhaps, she little thinks how I
       would retort upon her if I married her son. I would oppose her in
       everything, and compete with her. I would make it the business of my
       life.'

       Fanny set down the bottle when she came to this, and walked about the
       room; always stopping and standing still while she spoke.

       'One thing I could certainly do, my child: I could make her older. And I
       would!'

       This was followed by another walk.

       'I would talk of her as an old woman. I would pretend to know--if I
       didn't, but I should from her son--all about her age. And she should
       hear me say, Amy: affectionately, quite dutifully and affectionately:
       how well she looked, considering her time of life. I could make her seem
       older at once, by being myself so much younger. I may not be as handsome
       as she is; I am not a fair judge of that question, I suppose; but I know
       I am handsome enough to be a thorn in her side. And I would be!'

       'My dear sister, would you condemn yourself to an unhappy life for
       this?'

       'It wouldn't be an unhappy life, Amy. It would be the life I am fitted
       for. Whether by disposition, or whether by circumstances, is no matter;
       I am better fitted for such a life than for almost any other.'

       There was something of a desolate tone in those words; but, with a
       short proud laugh she took another walk, and after passing a great
       looking-glass came to another stop.

       'Figure! Figure, Amy! Well. The woman has a good figure. I will give her
       her due, and not deny it. But is it so far beyond all others that it is
       altogether unapproachable? Upon my word, I am not so sure of it. Give
       some much younger woman the latitude as to dress that she has, being
       married; and we would see about that, my dear!'

       Something in the thought that was agreeable and flattering, brought her
       back to her seat in a gayer temper. She took her sister's hands in hers,
       and clapped all four hands above her head as she looked in her sister's
       face laughing:

       'And the dancer, Amy, that she has quite forgotten--the dancer who bore
       no sort of resemblance to me, and of whom I never remind her, oh dear
       no!--should dance through her life, and dance in her way, to such a tune
       as would disturb her insolent placidity a little. Just a little, my dear
       Amy, just a little!'

       Meeting an earnest and imploring look in Amy's face, she brought the
       four hands down, and laid only one on Amy's lips.

       'Now, don't argue with me, child,' she said in a sterner way, 'because
       it is of no use. I understand these subjects much better than you do. I
       have not nearly made up my mind, but it may be. Now we have talked this
       over comfortably, and may go to bed. You best and dearest little mouse,
       Good night!' With those words Fanny weighed her Anchor, and--having
       taken so much advice--left off being advised for that occasion.

       Thenceforward, Amy observed Mr Sparkler's treatment by his enslaver,
       with new reasons for attaching importance to all that passed between
       them. There were times when Fanny appeared quite unable to endure his
       mental feebleness, and when she became so sharply impatient of it that
       she would all but dismiss him for good. There were other times when she
       got on much better with him; when he amused her, and when her sense of
       superiority seemed to counterbalance that opposite side of the scale. If
       Mr Sparkler had been other than the faithfullest and most submissive of
       swains, he was sufficiently hard pressed to have fled from the scene of
       his trials, and have set at least the whole distance from Rome to London
       between himself and his enchantress. But he had no greater will of his
       own than a boat has when it is towed by a steam-ship; and he followed
       his cruel mistress through rough and smooth, on equally strong
       compulsion.

       Mrs Merdle, during these passages, said little to Fanny, but said
       more about her. She was, as it were, forced to look at her through her
       eye-glass, and in general conversation to allow commendations of her
       beauty to be wrung from her by its irresistible demands. The defiant
       character it assumed when Fanny heard these extollings (as it generally
               happened that she did), was not expressive of concessions to the
       impartial bosom; but the utmost revenge the bosom took was, to say
       audibly, 'A spoilt beauty--but with that face and shape, who could
       wonder?'

       It might have been about a month or six weeks after the night of the
       new advice, when Little Dorrit began to think she detected some new
       understanding between Mr Sparkler and Fanny. Mr Sparkler, as if in
       attendance to some compact, scarcely ever spoke without first looking
       towards Fanny for leave. That young lady was too discreet ever to look
       back again; but, if Mr Sparkler had permission to speak, she remained
       silent; if he had not, she herself spoke. Moreover, it became plain
       whenever Henry Gowan attempted to perform the friendly office of drawing
       him out, that he was not to be drawn. And not only that, but Fanny would
       presently, without any pointed application in the world, chance to say
       something with such a sting in it that Gowan would draw back as if he
       had put his hand into a bee-hive.

       There was yet another circumstance which went a long way to confirm
       Little Dorrit in her fears, though it was not a great circumstance
       in itself. Mr Sparkler's demeanour towards herself changed. It became
       fraternal. Sometimes, when she was in the outer circle of assemblies--at
       their own residence, at Mrs Merdle's, or elsewhere--she would find
       herself stealthily supported round the waist by Mr Sparkler's arm. Mr
       Sparkler never offered the slightest explanation of this attention;
       but merely smiled with an air of blundering, contented, good-natured
       proprietorship, which, in so heavy a gentleman, was ominously
       expressive.

       Little Dorrit was at home one day, thinking about Fanny with a heavy
       heart. They had a room at one end of their drawing-room suite, nearly
       all irregular bay-window, projecting over the street, and commanding
       all the picturesque life and variety of the Corso, both up and down. At
       three or four o'clock in the afternoon, English time, the view from this
       window was very bright and peculiar; and Little Dorrit used to sit
       and muse here, much as she had been used to while away the time in her
       balcony at Venice. Seated thus one day, she was softly touched on the
       shoulder, and Fanny said, 'Well, Amy dear,' and took her seat at her
       side. Their seat was a part of the window; when there was anything in
       the way of a procession going on, they used to have bright draperies
       hung out of the window, and used to kneel or sit on this seat, and look
       out at it, leaning on the brilliant colour. But there was no procession
       that day, and Little Dorrit was rather surprised by Fanny's being at
       home at that hour, as she was generally out on horseback then.

       'Well, Amy,' said Fanny, 'what are you thinking of, little one?'

       'I was thinking of you, Fanny.'

       'No? What a coincidence! I declare here's some one else. You were not
       thinking of this some one else too; were you, Amy?'

       Amy _had_ been thinking of this some one else too; for it was Mr Sparkler.
       She did not say so, however, as she gave him her hand. Mr Sparkler
       came and sat down on the other side of her, and she felt the fraternal
       railing come behind her, and apparently stretch on to include Fanny.

       'Well, my little sister,' said Fanny with a sigh, 'I suppose you know
       what this means?'

       'She's as beautiful as she's doated on,' stammered Mr Sparkler--'and
       there's no nonsense about her--it's arranged--'

       'You needn't explain, Edmund,' said Fanny.

       'No, my love,' said Mr Sparkler.

       'In short, pet,' proceeded Fanny, 'on the whole, we are engaged. We
       must tell papa about it either to-night or to-morrow, according to the
       opportunities. Then it's done, and very little more need be said.'

       'My dear Fanny,' said Mr Sparkler, with deference, 'I should like to say
       a word to Amy.'

       'Well, well! Say it for goodness' sake,' returned the young lady.

       'I am convinced, my dear Amy,' said Mr Sparkler, 'that if ever there
       was a girl, next to your highly endowed and beautiful sister, who had no
       nonsense about her--'

       'We know all about that, Edmund,' interposed Miss Fanny. 'Never mind
       that. Pray go on to something else besides our having no nonsense about
       us.'

       'Yes, my love,' said Mr Sparkler. 'And I assure you, Amy, that nothing
       can be a greater happiness to myself, myself--next to the happiness of
       being so highly honoured with the choice of a glorious girl who hasn't
       an atom of--'

       'Pray, Edmund, pray!' interrupted Fanny, with a slight pat of her pretty
       foot upon the floor.

       'My love, you're quite right,' said Mr Sparkler, 'and I know I have a
       habit of it. What I wished to declare was, that nothing can be a greater
       happiness to myself, myself-next to the happiness of being united to
       pre-eminently the most glorious of girls--than to have the happiness
       of cultivating the affectionate acquaintance of Amy. I may not myself,'
       said Mr Sparkler manfully, 'be up to the mark on some other subjects
       at a short notice, and I am aware that if you were to poll Society the
       general opinion would be that I am not; but on the subject of Amy I AM
       up to the mark!'

       Mr Sparkler kissed her, in witness thereof.

       'A knife and fork and an apartment,' proceeded Mr Sparkler, growing, in
       comparison with his oratorical antecedents, quite diffuse, 'will ever
       be at Amy's disposal. My Governor, I am sure, will always be proud to
       entertain one whom I so much esteem. And regarding my mother,' said Mr
       Sparkler, 'who is a remarkably fine woman, with--'

       'Edmund, Edmund!' cried Miss Fanny, as before.

       'With submission, my soul,' pleaded Mr Sparkler. 'I know I have a habit
       of it, and I thank you very much, my adorable girl, for taking the
       trouble to correct it; but my mother is admitted on all sides to be a
       remarkably fine woman, and she really hasn't any.'

       'That may be, or may not be,' returned Fanny, 'but pray don't mention it
       any more.'

       'I will not, my love,' said Mr Sparkler.

       'Then, in fact, you have nothing more to say, Edmund; have you?'
       inquired Fanny.

       'So far from it, my adorable girl,' answered Mr Sparkler, 'I apologise
       for having said so much.'

       Mr Sparkler perceived, by a kind of inspiration, that the question
       implied had he not better go? He therefore withdrew the fraternal
       railing, and neatly said that he thought he would, with submission, take
       his leave. He did not go without being congratulated by Amy, as well
       as she could discharge that office in the flutter and distress of her
       spirits.

       When he was gone, she said, 'O Fanny, Fanny!' and turned to her sister
       in the bright window, and fell upon her bosom and cried there. Fanny
       laughed at first; but soon laid her face against her sister's and cried
       too--a little. It was the last time Fanny ever showed that there was any
       hidden, suppressed, or conquered feeling in her on the matter. From that
       hour the way she had chosen lay before her, and she trod it with her own
       imperious self-willed step.

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

completion: So, lots of congratulations all around for Sparkler getting this awesome job. And by awesome job, we mean a fat paycheck for twiddling his thumbs all day. Mrs. Merdle makes it out to be like Sparkler is doing everyone a favor by working in the city, when he'd much rather be in the country. Gowan is totally furious that he didn't get appointed to anything and makes it his business to praise Sparkler and draw him out at parties so that by talking he will demonstrate his idiocy. It works really well. Fanny is kind of screwed, since everyone knows that Sparkler has the hots for her - and now that he's got this job for life, it seems like it's time to put her ring finger where her mouth is. She decides to have a confab with Amy. Fanny's points are: 1) Life with the Dorrits sucks because, despite all the money, Dorrit and Tip are still pretty vulgar. 2) She doesn't want to have Mrs. General for a stepmom. And mostly 3) if she marries Sparkler she can spend her life getting back at Mrs. Merdle. Amy is totally horrified and says that true love means total submission to the person you love. OK, masochist, not everyone is into that. Fanny is all, um, that's not for me. Then Fanny gets carried away by fantasies of how awesomely she could stick it to Mrs. Merdle. For one thing, she would make her mother-in-law immediately seem old just by being nearby and younger. Amy is sad to hear all of this and kind of argues that maybe marrying someone out of spite isn't the best way to live. But Fanny doesn't really listen to her. Amy then notices that Fanny seems nicer to Sparkler all of a sudden. And Mrs. Merdle keeps having to begrudgingly admit that Fanny is beautiful. Finally Sparkler stops speaking in public without first looking at Fanny for permission. Whenever Gowan tries to draw him out now, Fanny instead makes some insulting comeback and nips that whole thing in the bud. One day, the deal is done - Fanny and Sparkler are engaged. He gives Amy a mangled little speech about how nice it will be to have her for a sister. It's actually very sweet. After he leaves, Amy starts to cry, and Fanny does too a little. But that's the last time she ever cries about her path in life.


prompt:
Chapter: Mr Dorrit, on being informed by his elder daughter that she had accepted
matrimonial overtures from Mr Sparkler, to whom she had plighted her
troth, received the communication at once with great dignity and with a
large display of parental pride; his dignity dilating with the widened
prospect of advantageous ground from which to make acquaintances, and
his parental pride being developed by Miss Fanny's ready sympathy with
that great object of his existence. He gave her to understand that her
noble ambition found harmonious echoes in his heart; and bestowed
his blessing on her, as a child brimful of duty and good principle,
    self-devoted to the aggrandisement of the family name.

    To Mr Sparkler, when Miss Fanny permitted him to appear, Mr Dorrit said,
    he would not disguise that the alliance Mr Sparkler did him the honour
    to propose was highly congenial to his feelings; both as being in unison
    with the spontaneous affections of his daughter Fanny, and as opening
    a family connection of a gratifying nature with Mr Merdle, the
    master spirit of the age. Mrs Merdle also, as a leading lady rich in
    distinction, elegance, grace, and beauty, he mentioned in very laudatory
    terms. He felt it his duty to remark (he was sure a gentleman of Mr
            Sparkler's fine sense would interpret him with all delicacy), that he
    could not consider this proposal definitely determined on, until he
    should have had the privilege of holding some correspondence with Mr
    Merdle; and of ascertaining it to be so far accordant with the views
    of that eminent gentleman as that his (Mr Dorrit's) daughter would be
    received on that footing which her station in life and her dowry and
    expectations warranted him in requiring that she should maintain in
    what he trusted he might be allowed, without the appearance of being
    mercenary, to call the Eye of the Great World. While saying this, which
    his character as a gentleman of some little station, and his character
    as a father, equally demanded of him, he would not be so diplomatic
    as to conceal that the proposal remained in hopeful abeyance and
    under conditional acceptance, and that he thanked Mr Sparkler for the
    compliment rendered to himself and to his family. He concluded with
    some further and more general observations on the--ha--character of an
    independent gentleman, and the--hum--character of a possibly too
    partial and admiring parent. To sum the whole up shortly, he received
    Mr Sparkler's offer very much as he would have received three or four
    half-crowns from him in the days that were gone.

    Mr Sparkler, finding himself stunned by the words thus heaped upon his
    inoffensive head, made a brief though pertinent rejoinder; the same
    being neither more nor less than that he had long perceived Miss Fanny
    to have no nonsense about her, and that he had no doubt of its being all
    right with his Governor. At that point the object of his affections shut
    him up like a box with a spring lid, and sent him away.

    Proceeding shortly afterwards to pay his respects to the Bosom, Mr
    Dorrit was received by it with great consideration. Mrs Merdle had heard
    of this affair from Edmund. She had been surprised at first, because she
    had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Society had not thought Edmund
    a marrying man. Still, of course she had seen, as a woman (we women
            did instinctively see these things, Mr Dorrit!), that Edmund had been
    immensely captivated by Miss Dorrit, and she had openly said that Mr
    Dorrit had much to answer for in bringing so charming a girl abroad to
    turn the heads of his countrymen.

    'Have I the honour to conclude, madam,' said Mr Dorrit, 'that the
    direction which Mr Sparkler's affections have taken, is--ha-approved of
    by you?'

    'I assure you, Mr Dorrit,' returned the lady, 'that, personally, I am
    charmed.'

    That was very gratifying to Mr Dorrit.

    'Personally,' repeated Mrs Merdle, 'charmed.'

    This casual repetition of the word 'personally,' moved Mr Dorrit to
    express his hope that Mr Merdle's approval, too, would not be wanting?

    'I cannot,' said Mrs Merdle, 'take upon myself to answer positively for
    Mr Merdle; gentlemen, especially gentlemen who are what Society calls
    capitalists, having their own ideas of these matters. But I should
    think--merely giving an opinion, Mr Dorrit--I should think Mr Merdle
    would be upon the whole,' here she held a review of herself before
    adding at her leisure, 'quite charmed.'

    At the mention of gentlemen whom Society called capitalists, Mr Dorrit
    had coughed, as if some internal demur were breaking out of him. Mrs
    Merdle had observed it, and went on to take up the cue.

    'Though, indeed, Mr Dorrit, it is scarcely necessary for me to make that
    remark, except in the mere openness of saying what is uppermost to one
    whom I so highly regard, and with whom I hope I may have the pleasure
    of being brought into still more agreeable relations. For one cannot
    but see the great probability of your considering such things from Mr
    Merdle's own point of view, except indeed that circumstances have made
    it Mr Merdle's accidental fortune, or misfortune, to be engaged in
    business transactions, and that they, however vast, may a little cramp
    his horizons. I am a very child as to having any notion of business,'
    said Mrs Merdle; 'but I am afraid, Mr Dorrit, it may have that
    tendency.'

    This skilful see-saw of Mr Dorrit and Mrs Merdle, so that each of them
    sent the other up, and each of them sent the other down, and neither
    had the advantage, acted as a sedative on Mr Dorrit's cough. He remarked
    with his utmost politeness, that he must beg to protest against its
    being supposed, even by Mrs Merdle, the accomplished and graceful
    (to which compliment she bent herself), that such enterprises as Mr
    Merdle's, apart as they were from the puny undertakings of the rest of
    men, had any lower tendency than to enlarge and expand the genius in
    which they were conceived. 'You are generosity itself,' said Mrs Merdle
    in return, smiling her best smile; 'let us hope so. But I confess I am
    almost superstitious in my ideas about business.'

    Mr Dorrit threw in another compliment here, to the effect that business,
    like the time which was precious in it, was made for slaves; and that it
    was not for Mrs Merdle, who ruled all hearts at her supreme pleasure,
    to have anything to do with it. Mrs Merdle laughed, and conveyed to
    Mr Dorrit an idea that the Bosom flushed--which was one of her best
    effects.

    'I say so much,' she then explained, 'merely because Mr Merdle has
    always taken the greatest interest in Edmund, and has always expressed
    the strongest desire to advance his prospects. Edmund's public position,
    I think you know. His private position rests solely with Mr Merdle. In
    my foolish incapacity for business, I assure you I know no more.'

    Mr Dorrit again expressed, in his own way, the sentiment that business
    was below the ken of enslavers and enchantresses. He then mentioned his
    intention, as a gentleman and a parent, of writing to Mr Merdle. Mrs
    Merdle concurred with all her heart--or with all her art, which was
    exactly the same thing--and herself despatched a preparatory letter by
    the next post to the eighth wonder of the world.

    In his epistolary communication, as in his dialogues and discourses on
    the great question to which it related, Mr Dorrit surrounded the
    subject with flourishes, as writing-masters embellish copy-books and
    ciphering-books: where the titles of the elementary rules of
    arithmetic diverge into swans, eagles, griffins, and other calligraphic
    recreations, and where the capital letters go out of their minds and
    bodies into ecstasies of pen and ink. Nevertheless, he did render the
    purport of his letter sufficiently clear, to enable Mr Merdle to make a
    decent pretence of having learnt it from that source. Mr Merdle replied
    to it accordingly. Mr Dorrit replied to Mr Merdle; Mr Merdle replied to
    Mr Dorrit; and it was soon announced that the corresponding powers had
    come to a satisfactory understanding.

    Now, and not before, Miss Fanny burst upon the scene, completely arrayed
    for her new part. Now and not before, she wholly absorbed Mr Sparkler in
    her light, and shone for both, and twenty more. No longer feeling that
    want of a defined place and character which had caused her so much
    trouble, this fair ship began to steer steadily on a shaped course, and
    to swim with a weight and balance that developed her sailing qualities.

    'The preliminaries being so satisfactorily arranged, I think I will now,
    my dear,' said Mr Dorrit, 'announce--ha--formally, to Mrs General--'

    'Papa,' returned Fanny, taking him up short upon that name, 'I don't see
    what Mrs General has got to do with it.'

    'My dear,' said Mr Dorrit, 'it will be an act of courtesy to--hum--a
    lady, well bred and refined--'

    'Oh! I am sick of Mrs General's good breeding and refinement, papa,'
    said Fanny. 'I am tired of Mrs General.'

    'Tired,' repeated Mr Dorrit in reproachful astonishment, 'of--ha--Mrs
    General.'

    'Quite disgusted with her, papa,' said Fanny. 'I really don't see what
    she has to do with my marriage. Let her keep to her own matrimonial
    projects--if she has any.'

    'Fanny,' returned Mr Dorrit, with a grave and weighty slowness upon him,
    contrasting strongly with his daughter's levity: 'I beg the favour of
    your explaining--ha--what it is you mean.'

    'I mean, papa,' said Fanny, 'that if Mrs General should happen to have
    any matrimonial projects of her own, I dare say they are quite enough to
    occupy her spare time. And that if she has not, so much the better; but
    still I don't wish to have the honour of making announcements to her.'

    'Permit me to ask you, Fanny,' said Mr Dorrit, 'why not?'

    'Because she can find my engagement out for herself, papa,' retorted
    Fanny. 'She is watchful enough, I dare say. I think I have seen her
    so. Let her find it out for herself. If she should not find it out for
    herself, she will know it when I am married. And I hope you will not
    consider me wanting in affection for you, papa, if I say it strikes me
    that will be quite enough for Mrs General.'

    'Fanny,' returned Mr Dorrit, 'I am amazed, I am displeased by
    this--hum--this capricious and unintelligible display of animosity
    towards--ha--Mrs General.'

    'Do not, if you please, papa,' urged Fanny, 'call it animosity, because
    I assure you I do not consider Mrs General worth my animosity.'

    At this, Mr Dorrit rose from his chair with a fixed look of severe
    reproof, and remained standing in his dignity before his daughter. His
    daughter, turning the bracelet on her arm, and now looking at him, and
    now looking from him, said, 'Very well, papa. I am truly sorry if you
    don't like it; but I can't help it. I am not a child, and I am not Amy,
    and I must speak.'

    'Fanny,' gasped Mr Dorrit, after a majestic silence, 'if I request
    you to remain here, while I formally announce to Mrs General, as
    an exemplary lady, who is--hum--a trusted member of this family,
    the--ha--the change that is contemplated among us; if I--ha--not only
    request it, but--hum--insist upon it--'

    'Oh, papa,' Fanny broke in with pointed significance, 'if you make so
    much of it as that, I have in duty nothing to do but comply. I hope I
    may have my thoughts upon the subject, however, for I really cannot help
    it under the circumstances.' So, Fanny sat down with a meekness which,
    in the junction of extremes, became defiance; and her father, either not
    deigning to answer, or not knowing what to answer, summoned Mr Tinkler
    into his presence.

    'Mrs General.'

    Mr Tinkler, unused to receive such short orders in connection with the
    fair varnisher, paused. Mr Dorrit, seeing the whole Marshalsea and all
    its testimonials in the pause, instantly flew at him with, 'How dare
    you, sir? What do you mean?'

    'I beg your pardon, sir,' pleaded Mr Tinkler, 'I was wishful to know--'

    'You wished to know nothing, sir,' cried Mr Dorrit, highly flushed.
    'Don't tell me you did. Ha. You didn't. You are guilty of mockery, sir.'

    'I assure you, sir--' Mr Tinkler began.

    'Don't assure me!' said Mr Dorrit. 'I will not be assured by a
    domestic. You are guilty of mockery. You shall leave me--hum--the whole
    establishment shall leave me. What are you waiting for?'

    'Only for my orders, sir.'

    'It's false,' said Mr Dorrit, 'you have your orders. Ha--hum. My
    compliments to Mrs General, and I beg the favour of her coming to me, if
    quite convenient, for a few minutes. Those are your orders.'

    In his execution of this mission, Mr Tinkler perhaps expressed that Mr
    Dorrit was in a raging fume. However that was, Mrs General's skirts were
    very speedily heard outside, coming along--one might almost have said
    bouncing along--with unusual expedition. Albeit, they settled down at
    the door and swept into the room with their customary coolness.

    'Mrs General,' said Mr Dorrit, 'take a chair.'

    Mrs General, with a graceful curve of acknowledgment, descended into the
    chair which Mr Dorrit offered.

    'Madam,' pursued that gentleman, 'as you have had the kindness to
    undertake the--hum--formation of my daughters, and as I am persuaded
    that nothing nearly affecting them can--ha--be indifferent to you--'

    'Wholly impossible,' said Mrs General in the calmest of ways.

    '--I therefore wish to announce to you, madam, that my daughter now
    present--'

    Mrs General made a slight inclination of her head to Fanny, who made
    a very low inclination of her head to Mrs General, and came loftily
    upright again.

    '--That my daughter Fanny is--ha--contracted to be married to Mr
    Sparkler, with whom you are acquainted. Hence, madam, you will be
    relieved of half your difficult charge--ha--difficult charge.' Mr
    Dorrit repeated it with his angry eye on Fanny. 'But not, I hope, to
    the--hum--diminution of any other portion, direct or indirect, of the
    footing you have at present the kindness to occupy in my family.'

    'Mr Dorrit,' returned Mrs General, with her gloved hands resting on
    one another in exemplary repose, 'is ever considerate, and ever but too
    appreciative of my friendly services.'

    (Miss Fanny coughed, as much as to say, 'You are right.')

    'Miss Dorrit has no doubt exercised the soundest discretion of which
    the circumstances admitted, and I trust will allow me to offer her my
    sincere congratulations. When free from the trammels of passion,' Mrs
    General closed her eyes at the word, as if she could not utter it, and
    see anybody; 'when occurring with the approbation of near relatives;
    and when cementing the proud structure of a family edifice; these are
    usually auspicious events. I trust Miss Dorrit will allow me to offer
    her my best congratulations.'

    Here Mrs General stopped, and added internally, for the setting of her
    face, 'Papa, potatoes, poultry, Prunes, and prism.'

    'Mr Dorrit,' she superadded aloud, 'is ever most obliging; and for
    the attention, and I will add distinction, of having this confidence
    imparted to me by himself and Miss Dorrit at this early time, I beg to
    offer the tribute of my thanks. My thanks, and my congratulations, are
    equally the meed of Mr Dorrit and of Miss Dorrit.'

    'To me,' observed Miss Fanny, 'they are excessively
    gratifying--inexpressibly so. The relief of finding that you have no
    objection to make, Mrs General, quite takes a load off my mind, I am
    sure. I hardly know what I should have done,' said Fanny, 'if you had
    interposed any objection, Mrs General.'

    Mrs General changed her gloves, as to the right glove being uppermost
    and the left undermost, with a Prunes and Prism smile.

    'To preserve your approbation, Mrs General,' said Fanny, returning the
    smile with one in which there was no trace of those ingredients, 'will
    of course be the highest object of my married life; to lose it, would of
    course be perfect wretchedness. I am sure your great kindness will
    not object, and I hope papa will not object, to my correcting a
    small mistake you have made, however. The best of us are so liable to
    mistakes, that even you, Mrs General, have fallen into a little error.
    The attention and distinction you have so impressively mentioned, Mrs
    General, as attaching to this confidence, are, I have no doubt, of the
    most complimentary and gratifying description; but they don't at all
    proceed from me. The merit of having consulted you on the subject would
    have been so great in me, that I feel I must not lay claim to it when it
    really is not mine. It is wholly papa's. I am deeply obliged to you for
    your encouragement and patronage, but it was papa who asked for it.
    I have to thank you, Mrs General, for relieving my breast of a great
    weight by so handsomely giving your consent to my engagement, but you
    have really nothing to thank me for. I hope you will always approve of
    my proceedings after I have left home and that my sister also may long
    remain the favoured object of your condescension, Mrs General.'

    With this address, which was delivered in her politest manner, Fanny
    left the room with an elegant and cheerful air--to tear up-stairs with
    a flushed face as soon as she was out of hearing, pounce in upon her
    sister, call her a little Dormouse, shake her for the better opening of
    her eyes, tell her what had passed below, and ask her what she thought
    of Pa now?

    Towards Mrs Merdle, the young lady comported herself with great
    independence and self-possession; but not as yet with any more decided
    opening of hostilities. Occasionally they had a slight skirmish, as when
    Fanny considered herself patted on the back by that lady, or as when Mrs
    Merdle looked particularly young and well; but Mrs Merdle always soon
    terminated those passages of arms by sinking among her cushions with the
    gracefullest indifference, and finding her attention otherwise engaged.
Society (for that mysterious creature sat upon the Seven Hills too)
    found Miss Fanny vastly improved by her engagement. She was much more
    accessible, much more free and engaging, much less exacting; insomuch
    that she now entertained a host of followers and admirers, to the bitter
    indignation of ladies with daughters to marry, who were to be regarded
    as Having revolted from Society on the Miss Dorrit grievance, and
    erected a rebellious standard. Enjoying the flutter she caused. Miss
    Dorrit not only haughtily moved through it in her own proper person, but
    haughtily, even Ostentatiously, led Mr Sparkler through it too: seeming
    to say to them all, 'If I think proper to march among you in triumphal
    procession attended by this weak captive in bonds, rather than a
    stronger one, that is my business. Enough that I choose to do it!' Mr
    Sparkler for his part, questioned nothing; but went wherever he was
    taken, did whatever he was told, felt that for his bride-elect to be
    distinguished was for him to be distinguished on the easiest terms, and
    was truly grateful for being so openly acknowledged.

    The winter passing on towards the spring while this condition of affairs
    prevailed, it became necessary for Mr Sparkler to repair to England, and
    take his appointed part in the expression and direction of its genius,
    learning, commerce, spirit, and sense. The land of Shakespeare, Milton,
    Bacon, Newton, Watt, the land of a host of past and present abstract
    philosophers, natural philosophers, and subduers of Nature and Art in
    their myriad forms, called to Mr Sparkler to come and take care of it,
    lest it should perish. Mr Sparkler, unable to resist the agonised cry
    from the depths of his country's soul, declared that he must go.

    It followed that the question was rendered pressing when, where, and
    how Mr Sparkler should be married to the foremost girl in all this world
    with no nonsense about her. Its solution, after some little mystery and
    secrecy, Miss Fanny herself announced to her sister.

    'Now, my child,' said she, seeking her out one day, 'I am going to tell
    you something. It is only this moment broached; and naturally I hurry to
    you the moment it _is_ broached.'

    'Your marriage, Fanny?'

    'My precious child,' said Fanny, 'don't anticipate me. Let me impart my
    confidence to you, you flurried little thing, in my own way. As to your
    guess, if I answered it literally, I should answer no. For really it is
    not my marriage that is in question, half as much as it is Edmund's.'

    Little Dorrit looked, and perhaps not altogether without cause, somewhat
    at a loss to understand this fine distinction.

    'I am in no difficulty,' exclaimed Fanny, 'and in no hurry. I am not
    wanted at any public office, or to give any vote anywhere else.
    But Edmund is. And Edmund is deeply dejected at the idea of going away
    by himself, and, indeed, I don't like that he should be trusted by
    himself. For, if it's possible--and it generally is--to do a foolish
    thing, he is sure to do it.'

    As she concluded this impartial summary of the reliance that might be
    safely placed upon her future husband, she took off, with an air of
    business, the bonnet she wore, and dangled it by its strings upon the
    ground.

    'It is far more Edmund's question, therefore, than mine. However, we
    need say no more about that. That is self-evident on the face of it.
    Well, my dearest Amy! The point arising, is he to go by himself, or is
    he not to go by himself, this other point arises, are we to be married
    here and shortly, or are we to be married at home months hence?'

    'I see I am going to lose you, Fanny.'

    'What a little thing you are,' cried Fanny, half tolerant and half
    impatient, 'for anticipating one! Pray, my darling, hear me out. That
    woman,' she spoke of Mrs Merdle, of course, 'remains here until after
    Easter; so, in the case of my being married here and going to London
    with Edmund, I should have the start of her. That is something. Further,
    Amy. That woman being out of the way, I don't know that I greatly object
    to Mr Merdle's proposal to Pa that Edmund and I should take up our abode
    in that house--_you_ know--where you once went with a dancer, my dear,
    until our own house can be chosen and fitted up. Further still, Amy.
    Papa having always intended to go to town himself, in the spring,--you
    see, if Edmund and I were married here, we might go off to Florence,
    where papa might join us, and we might all three travel home together.
    Mr Merdle has entreated Pa to stay with him in that same mansion I have
    mentioned, and I suppose he will. But he is master of his own actions;
    and upon that point (which is not at all material) I can't speak
    positively.'

    The difference between papa's being master of his own actions and Mr
    Sparkler's being nothing of the sort, was forcibly expressed by Fanny in
    her manner of stating the case. Not that her sister noticed it; for she
    was divided between regret at the coming separation, and a lingering
    wish that she had been included in the plans for visiting England.

    'And these are the arrangements, Fanny dear?'

    'Arrangements!' repeated Fanny. 'Now, really, child, you are a little
    trying. You know I particularly guarded myself against laying my words
    open to any such construction. What I said was, that certain questions
    present themselves; and these are the questions.'

    Little Dorrit's thoughtful eyes met hers, tenderly and quietly.

    'Now, my own sweet girl,' said Fanny, weighing her bonnet by the strings
    with considerable impatience, 'it's no use staring. A little owl could
    stare. I look to you for advice, Amy. What do you advise me to do?'

    'Do you think,' asked Little Dorrit, persuasively, after a short
    hesitation, 'do you think, Fanny, that if you were to put it off for a
    few months, it might be, considering all things, best?'

    'No, little Tortoise,' retorted Fanny, with exceeding sharpness. 'I
    don't think anything of the kind.'

    Here, she threw her bonnet from her altogether, and flounced into a
    chair. But, becoming affectionate almost immediately, she flounced out
    of it again, and kneeled down on the floor to take her sister, chair and
    all, in her arms.

    'Don't suppose I am hasty or unkind, darling, because I really am not.
    But you are such a little oddity! You make one bite your head off,
    when one wants to be soothing beyond everything. Didn't I tell you, you
    dearest baby, that Edmund can't be trusted by himself? And don't you
    know that he can't?'

    'Yes, yes, Fanny. You said so, I know.'

    'And you know it, I know,' retorted Fanny. 'Well, my precious child! If
    he is not to be trusted by himself, it follows, I suppose, that I should
    go with him?'

    'It--seems so, love,' said Little Dorrit.

    'Therefore, having heard the arrangements that are feasible to carry
    out that object, am I to understand, dearest Amy, that on the whole you
    advise me to make them?'

    'It--seems so, love,' said Little Dorrit again.

    'Very well,' cried Fanny with an air of resignation, 'then I suppose it
    must be done! I came to you, my sweet, the moment I saw the doubt, and
    the necessity of deciding. I have now decided. So let it be.'

    After yielding herself up, in this pattern manner, to sisterly advice
    and the force of circumstances, Fanny became quite benignant: as one
    who had laid her own inclinations at the feet of her dearest friend, and
    felt a glow of conscience in having made the sacrifice. 'After all, my
    Amy,' she said to her sister, 'you are the best of small creatures, and
    full of good sense; and I don't know what I shall ever do without you!'

    With which words she folded her in a closer embrace, and a really fond
    one.

    'Not that I contemplate doing without You, Amy, by any means, for I hope
    we shall ever be next to inseparable. And now, my pet, I am going
    to give you a word of advice. When you are left alone here with Mrs
    General--'

    'I am to be left alone here with Mrs General?' said Little Dorrit,
    quietly.

    'Why, of course, my precious, till papa comes back! Unless you call
    Edward company, which he certainly is not, even when he is here, and
    still more certainly is not when he is away at Naples or in Sicily. I
    was going to say--but you are such a beloved little Marplot for putting
    one out--when you are left alone here with Mrs General, Amy, don't you
    let her slide into any sort of artful understanding with you that she is
    looking after Pa, or that Pa is looking after her. She will if she can.
    I know her sly manner of feeling her way with those gloves of hers. But
    don't you comprehend her on any account. And if Pa should tell you when
    he comes back, that he has it in contemplation to make Mrs General your
    mama (which is not the less likely because I am going away), my advice
    to you is, that you say at once, "Papa, I beg to object most strongly.
    Fanny cautioned me about this, and she objected, and I object." I don't
    mean to say that any objection from you, Amy, is likely to be of the
    smallest effect, or that I think you likely to make it with any degree
    of firmness. But there is a principle involved--a filial principle--and
    I implore you not to submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General,
    without asserting it in making every one about you as uncomfortable as
    possible. I don't expect you to stand by it--indeed, I know you won't,
    Pa being concerned--but I wish to rouse you to a sense of duty. As to
    any help from me, or as to any opposition that I can offer to such a
    match, you shall not be left in the lurch, my love. Whatever weight
    I may derive from my position as a married girl not wholly devoid of
    attractions--used, as that position always shall be, to oppose that
    woman--I will bring to bear, you May depend upon it, on the head and
    false hair (for I am confident it's not all real, ugly as it is and
            unlikely as it appears that any One in their Senses would go to the
            expense of buying it) of Mrs General!'

    Little Dorrit received this counsel without venturing to oppose it but
    without giving Fanny any reason to believe that she intended to act upon
    it. Having now, as it were, formally wound up her single life and
    arranged her worldly affairs, Fanny proceeded with characteristic ardour
    to prepare for the serious change in her condition.

    The preparation consisted in the despatch of her maid to Paris under the
    protection of the Courier, for the purchase of that outfit for a bride
    on which it would be extremely low, in the present narrative, to bestow
    an English name, but to which (on a vulgar principle it observes
            of adhering to the language in which it professes to be written) it
    declines to give a French one. The rich and beautiful wardrobe purchased
    by these agents, in the course of a few weeks made its way through the
    intervening country, bristling with custom-houses, garrisoned by an
    immense army of shabby mendicants in uniform who incessantly repeated
    the Beggar's Petition over it, as if every individual warrior among them
    were the ancient Belisarius: and of whom there were so many Legions,
    that unless the Courier had expended just one bushel and a half of
    silver money relieving their distresses, they would have worn the
    wardrobe out before it got to Rome, by turning it over and over. Through
    all such dangers, however, it was triumphantly brought, inch by inch,
    and arrived at its journey's end in fine condition.

    There it was exhibited to select companies of female viewers, in whose
    gentle bosoms it awakened implacable feelings. Concurrently, active
    preparations were made for the day on which some of its treasures were
    to be publicly displayed. Cards of breakfast-invitation were sent out
    to half the English in the city of Romulus; the other half made
    arrangements to be under arms, as criticising volunteers, at various
    outer points of the solemnity. The most high and illustrious English
    Signor Edgardo Dorrit, came post through the deep mud and ruts (from
            forming a surface under the improving Neapolitan nobility), to grace
    the occasion. The best hotel and all its culinary myrmidons, were set to
    work to prepare the feast. The drafts of Mr Dorrit almost constituted a
    run on the Torlonia Bank. The British Consul hadn't had such a marriage
    in the whole of his Consularity.

    The day came, and the She-Wolf in the Capitol might have snarled with
    envy to see how the Island Savages contrived these things now-a-days.
    The murderous-headed statues of the wicked Emperors of the Soldiery,
    whom sculptors had not been able to flatter out of their villainous
    hideousness, might have come off their pedestals to run away with the
    Bride. The choked old fountain, where erst the gladiators washed, might
    have leaped into life again to honour the ceremony. The Temple of
    Vesta might have sprung up anew from its ruins, expressly to lend its
    countenance to the occasion. Might have done; but did not. Like sentient
    things--even like the lords and ladies of creation sometimes--might
    have done much, but did nothing. The celebration went off with admirable
    pomp; monks in black robes, white robes, and russet robes stopped to
    look after the carriages; wandering peasants in fleeces of sheep, begged
    and piped under the house-windows; the English volunteers defiled; the
    day wore on to the hour of vespers; the festival wore away; the thousand
    churches rang their bells without any reference to it; and St Peter
    denied that he had anything to do with it.

    But by that time the Bride was near the end of the first day's journey
    towards Florence. It was the peculiarity of the nuptials that they
    were all Bride. Nobody noticed the Bridegroom. Nobody noticed the first
    Bridesmaid. Few could have seen Little Dorrit (who held that post) for
    the glare, even supposing many to have sought her. So, the Bride had
    mounted into her handsome chariot, incidentally accompanied by the
    Bridegroom; and after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair
    pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a
    long, long avenue of wrack and ruin. Other nuptial carriages are said to
    have gone the same road, before and since.

    If Little Dorrit found herself left a little lonely and a little low
    that night, nothing would have done so much against her feeling of
    depression as the being able to sit at work by her father, as in the old
    time, and help him to his supper and his rest. But that was not to be
    thought of now, when they sat in the state-equipage with Mrs General on
    the coach-box. And as to supper! If Mr Dorrit had wanted supper, there
    was an Italian cook and there was a Swiss confectioner, who must
    have put on caps as high as the Pope's Mitre, and have performed the
    mysteries of Alchemists in a copper-saucepaned laboratory below, before
    he could have got it.

    He was sententious and didactic that night. If he had been simply
    loving, he would have done Little Dorrit more good; but she accepted him
    as he was--when had she not accepted him as he was!--and made the most
    and best of him. Mrs General at length retired. Her retirement for the
    night was always her frostiest ceremony, as if she felt it necessary
    that the human imagination should be chilled into stone to prevent
    its following her. When she had gone through her rigid preliminaries,
    amounting to a sort of genteel platoon-exercise, she withdrew. Little
    Dorrit then put her arm round her father's neck, to bid him good night.

    'Amy, my dear,' said Mr Dorrit, taking her by the hand, 'this is the
    close of a day, that has--ha--greatly impressed and gratified me.'

    'A little tired you, dear, too?'

    'No,' said Mr Dorrit, 'no: I am not sensible of fatigue when it arises
    from an occasion so--hum--replete with gratification of the purest
    kind.'

    Little Dorrit was glad to find him in such heart, and smiled from her
    own heart.

    'My dear,' he continued, 'this is an occasion--ha--teeming with a good
    example. With a good example, my favourite and attached child--hum--to
    you.'

    Little Dorrit, fluttered by his words, did not know what to say, though
    he stopped as if he expected her to say something.

    'Amy,' he resumed; 'your dear sister, our Fanny, has contracted
    ha hum--a marriage, eminently calculated to extend the basis of
    our--ha--connection, and to--hum--consolidate our social relations. My
    love, I trust that the time is not far distant when some--ha--eligible
    partner may be found for you.'

    'Oh no! Let me stay with you. I beg and pray that I may stay with you! I
    want nothing but to stay and take care of you!'

    She said it like one in sudden alarm.

    'Nay, Amy, Amy,' said Mr Dorrit. 'This is weak and foolish, weak
    and foolish. You have a--ha--responsibility imposed upon you by your
    position. It is to develop that position, and be--hum--worthy of that
    position. As to taking care of me; I can--ha--take care of myself.
    Or,' he added after a moment, 'if I should need to be taken care of,
    I--hum--can, with the--ha--blessing of Providence, be taken care of,
    I--ha hum--I cannot, my dear child, think of engrossing, and--ha--as it
    were, sacrificing you.'

    O what a time of day at which to begin that profession of self-denial;
    at which to make it, with an air of taking credit for it; at which to
    believe it, if such a thing could be!

    'Don't speak, Amy. I positively say I cannot do it. I--ha--must not do
    it. My--hum--conscience would not allow it. I therefore, my love, take
    the opportunity afforded by this gratifying and impressive occasion
    of--ha--solemnly remarking, that it is now a cherished wish and purpose
    of mine to see you--ha--eligibly (I repeat eligibly) married.'

    'Oh no, dear! Pray!'

    'Amy,' said Mr Dorrit, 'I am well persuaded that if the topic were
    referred to any person of superior social knowledge, of superior
    delicacy and sense--let us say, for instance, to--ha--Mrs General--that
    there would not be two opinions as to the--hum--affectionate character
    and propriety of my sentiments. But, as I know your loving and dutiful
    nature from--hum--from experience, I am quite satisfied that it is
    necessary to say no more. I have--hum--no husband to propose at
    present, my dear: I have not even one in view. I merely wish that we
    should--ha--understand each other. Hum. Good night, my dear and sole
    remaining daughter. Good night. God bless you!'

    If the thought ever entered Little Dorrit's head that night, that he
    could give her up lightly now in his prosperity, and when he had it in
    his mind to replace her with a second wife, she drove it away. Faithful
    to him still, as in the worst times through which she had borne him
    single-handed, she drove the thought away; and entertained no harder
    reflection, in her tearful unrest, than that he now saw everything
    through their wealth, and through the care he always had upon him that
    they should continue rich, and grow richer.

    They sat in their equipage of state, with Mrs General on the box, for
    three weeks longer, and then he started for Florence to join Fanny.
    Little Dorrit would have been glad to bear him company so far, only for
    the sake of her own love, and then to have turned back alone, thinking
    of dear England. But, though the Courier had gone on with the Bride, the
    Valet was next in the line; and the succession would not have come to
    her, as long as any one could be got for money.

    Mrs General took life easily--as easily, that is, as she could
    take anything--when the Roman establishment remained in their sole
    occupation; and Little Dorrit would often ride out in a hired carriage
    that was left them, and alight alone and wander among the ruins of old
    Rome. The ruins of the vast old Amphitheatre, of the old Temples, of the
    old commemorative Arches, of the old trodden highways, of the old
    tombs, besides being what they were, to her were ruins of the old
    Marshalsea--ruins of her own old life--ruins of the faces and forms
    that of old peopled it--ruins of its loves, hopes, cares, and joys. Two
    ruined spheres of action and suffering were before the solitary girl
    often sitting on some broken fragment; and in the lonely places, under
    the blue sky, she saw them both together.

    Up, then, would come Mrs General; taking all the colour out of
    everything, as Nature and Art had taken it out of herself; writing
    Prunes and Prism, in Mr Eustace's text, wherever she could lay a hand;
    looking everywhere for Mr Eustace and company, and seeing nothing else;
    scratching up the driest little bones of antiquity, and bolting them
    whole without any human visitings--like a Ghoule in gloves.

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

completion: Dorrit accepts the engagement with his usual pompousness. Mostly for him it's a way to secure the family further in society, so it's all to the good. Mrs. Merdle also likes the match. Dorrit and Merdle write a few letters back and forth to settle money questions, and then it's off to the races. Or, you know, to the wedding. Dorrit then wants to announce the engagement to Mrs. General. Fanny has no desire to give her any such preferential treatment, but Dorrit commands it. There is a totally hilarious exchange where Mrs. General says that she highly approves, and Fanny is all, "oh, well, thank goodness, how could I possibly go through life without your approval?" for two paragraphs. Awesome. Fanny's a firecracker. After telling her off, Fanny runs to Amy to complain about Dorrit and his special treatment of Mrs. General. Now Fanny is the queen bee and the belle of the ball in society, and everyone treats her with even more respect and grudging admiration. Finally the vacation season is over and Sparkler has to go back to England to start his job. Fanny has another confab with Amy where she tells her that she needs to marry Sparkler immediately and go to England with him because he's too much of an imbecile to be trusted alone. Fanny also asks Amy to vigorously protest if Dorrit decides to propose to Mrs. General. Amy doesn't make any such promise and is just mostly sad that she won't get to go to England too. So - wedding planning and preparations. And then the big day. It's as fancy and elite as anyone could want. It goes off without a hitch, and it's totally bride-centric. Afterwards, as Fanny and Sparkler drive off in their carriage, the narrator says that "after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a long, long avenue of wrack and ruin" . Oh, snap! That's telling them. That night Dorrit tells Amy that he's super happy about Fanny. Oh, and that all of this should be a lesson to Amy, who also will hopefully be married off soon. Amy flips out in fear and sadness and says she just wants to stay with Dorrit. But he is all faux-generosity and replies that he couldn't possibly ask for such a sacrifice from her. Oh, right, dude, and what do you call her whole life so far? Amy tries not to think about the idea that he's trying to get her out of the way so he can marry Mrs. General.


prompt:
Chapter: The newly married pair, on their arrival in Harley Street, Cavendish
Square, London, were received by the Chief Butler. That great man was
not interested in them, but on the whole endured them. People must
continue to be married and given in marriage, or Chief Butlers would not
be wanted. As nations are made to be taxed, so families are made to
be butlered. The Chief Butler, no doubt, reflected that the course of
nature required the wealthy population to be kept up, on his account.

He therefore condescended to look at the carriage from the Hall-door
without frowning at it, and said, in a very handsome way, to one of
his men, 'Thomas, help with the luggage.' He even escorted the Bride
up-stairs into Mr Merdle's presence; but this must be considered as an
act of homage to the sex (of which he was an admirer, being notoriously
        captivated by the charms of a certain Duchess), and not as a committal
of himself with the family.

Mr Merdle was slinking about the hearthrug, waiting to welcome Mrs
Sparkler. His hand seemed to retreat up his sleeve as he advanced to
do so, and he gave her such a superfluity of coat-cuff that it was like
being received by the popular conception of Guy Fawkes. When he put his
lips to hers, besides, he took himself into custody by the wrists, and
backed himself among the ottomans and chairs and tables as if he were
his own Police officer, saying to himself, 'Now, none of that! Come!
I've got you, you know, and you go quietly along with me!'

Mrs Sparkler, installed in the rooms of state--the innermost sanctuary
of down, silk, chintz, and fine linen--felt that so far her triumph was
good, and her way made, step by step. On the day before her marriage,
    she had bestowed on Mrs Merdle's maid with an air of gracious
    indifference, in Mrs Merdle's presence, a trifling little keepsake
    (bracelet, bonnet, and two dresses, all new) about four times as
    valuable as the present formerly made by Mrs Merdle to her. She was now
    established in Mrs Merdle's own rooms, to which some extra touches had
    been given to render them more worthy of her occupation. In her mind's
    eye, as she lounged there, surrounded by every luxurious accessory that
    wealth could obtain or invention devise, she saw the fair bosom that
    beat in unison with the exultation of her thoughts, competing with the
    bosom that had been famous so long, outshining it, and deposing it.
    Happy? Fanny must have been happy. No more wishing one's self dead now.

    The Courier had not approved of Mr Dorrit's staying in the house of
    a friend, and had preferred to take him to an hotel in Brook Street,
    Grosvenor Square. Mr Merdle ordered his carriage to be ready early
    in the morning that he might wait upon Mr Dorrit immediately after
    breakfast.

    Bright the carriage looked, sleek the horses looked, gleaming the
    harness looked, luscious and lasting the liveries looked. A rich,
    responsible turn-out. An equipage for a Merdle. Early people looked
    after it as it rattled along the streets, and said, with awe in their
    breath, 'There he goes!'

    There he went, until Brook Street stopped him. Then, forth from its
    magnificent case came the jewel; not lustrous in itself, but quite the
    contrary.

    Commotion in the office of the hotel. Merdle! The landlord, though
    a gentleman of a haughty spirit who had just driven a pair of
    thorough-bred horses into town, turned out to show him up-stairs.
    The clerks and servants cut him off by back-passages, and were found
    accidentally hovering in doorways and angles, that they might look upon
    him. Merdle! O ye sun, moon, and stars, the great man! The rich man, who
    had in a manner revised the New Testament, and already entered into the
    kingdom of Heaven. The man who could have any one he chose to dine with
    him, and who had made the money! As he went up the stairs, people were
    already posted on the lower stairs, that his shadow might fall upon them
    when he came down. So were the sick brought out and laid in the track of
    the Apostle--who had _not_ got into the good society, and had _not_ made
    the money.

    Mr Dorrit, dressing-gowned and newspapered, was at his breakfast. The
    Courier, with agitation in his voice, announced 'Miss Mairdale!' Mr
    Dorrit's overwrought heart bounded as he leaped up.

    'Mr Merdle, this is--ha--indeed an honour. Permit me to express
    the--hum--sense, the high sense, I entertain of this--ha hum--highly
    gratifying act of attention. I am well aware, sir, of the many demands
    upon your time, and its--ha--enormous value,' Mr Dorrit could not
    say enormous roundly enough for his own satisfaction. 'That you
    should--ha--at this early hour, bestow any of your priceless time upon
    me, is--ha--a compliment that I acknowledge with the greatest esteem.'
    Mr Dorrit positively trembled in addressing the great man.

    Mr Merdle uttered, in his subdued, inward, hesitating voice, a few
    sounds that were to no purpose whatever; and finally said, 'I am glad to
    see you, sir.'

    'You are very kind,' said Mr Dorrit. 'Truly kind.' By this time the
    visitor was seated, and was passing his great hand over his exhausted
    forehead. 'You are well, I hope, Mr Merdle?'

    'I am as well as I--yes, I am as well as I usually am,' said Mr Merdle.

    'Your occupations must be immense.'

    'Tolerably so. But--Oh dear no, there's not much the matter with _me_,'
    said Mr Merdle, looking round the room.

    'A little dyspeptic?' Mr Dorrit hinted.

    'Very likely. But I--Oh, I am well enough,' said Mr Merdle.

    There were black traces on his lips where they met, as if a little train
    of gunpowder had been fired there; and he looked like a man who, if his
    natural temperament had been quicker, would have been very feverish that
    morning. This, and his heavy way of passing his hand over his forehead,
    had prompted Mr Dorrit's solicitous inquiries.

    'Mrs Merdle,' Mr Dorrit insinuatingly pursued, 'I left, as you will be
    prepared to hear, the--ha--observed of all observers, the--hum--admired
    of all admirers, the leading fascination and charm of Society in Rome.
    She was looking wonderfully well when I quitted it.'

    'Mrs Merdle,' said Mr Merdle, 'is generally considered a very attractive
    woman. And she is, no doubt. I am sensible of her being so.'

    'Who can be otherwise?' responded Mr Dorrit.

    Mr Merdle turned his tongue in his closed mouth--it seemed rather a
    stiff and unmanageable tongue--moistened his lips, passed his hand over
    his forehead again, and looked all round the room again, principally
    under the chairs.

    'But,' he said, looking Mr Dorrit in the face for the first time, and
    immediately afterwards dropping his eyes to the buttons of Mr Dorrit's
    waistcoat; 'if we speak of attractions, your daughter ought to be the
    subject of our conversation. She is extremely beautiful. Both in face
    and figure, she is quite uncommon. When the young people arrived last
    night, I was really surprised to see such charms.'

    Mr Dorrit's gratification was such that he said--ha--he could not
    refrain from telling Mr Merdle verbally, as he had already done by
    letter, what honour and happiness he felt in this union of their
    families. And he offered his hand. Mr Merdle looked at the hand for a
    little while, took it on his for a moment as if his were a yellow salver
    or fish-slice, and then returned it to Mr Dorrit.

    'I thought I would drive round the first thing,' said Mr Merdle, 'to
    offer my services, in case I can do anything for you; and to say that
    I hope you will at least do me the honour of dining with me to-day, and
    every day when you are not better engaged during your stay in town.'

    Mr Dorrit was enraptured by these attentions.

    'Do you stay long, sir?'

    'I have not at present the intention,' said Mr Dorrit,
    'of--ha--exceeding a fortnight.'

    'That's a very short stay, after so long a journey,' returned Mr Merdle.

    'Hum. Yes,' said Mr Dorrit. 'But the truth is--ha--my dear Mr Merdle,
    that I find a foreign life so well suited to my health and taste, that
    I--hum--have but two objects in my present visit to London. First,
    the--ha--the distinguished happiness and--ha--privilege which I now
    enjoy and appreciate; secondly, the arrangement--hum--the laying out,
    that is to say, in the best way, of--ha, hum--my money.'

    'Well, sir,' said Mr Merdle, after turning his tongue again, 'if I can
    be of any use to you in that respect, you may command me.'

    Mr Dorrit's speech had had more hesitation in it than usual, as he
    approached the ticklish topic, for he was not perfectly clear how so
    exalted a potentate might take it. He had doubts whether reference to
    any individual capital, or fortune, might not seem a wretchedly retail
    affair to so wholesale a dealer. Greatly relieved by Mr Merdle's
    affable offer of assistance, he caught at it directly, and heaped
    acknowledgments upon him.

    'I scarcely--ha--dared,' said Mr Dorrit, 'I assure you, to hope for
    so--hum--vast an advantage as your direct advice and assistance. Though
    of course I should, under any circumstances, like the--ha, hum--rest of
    the civilised world, have followed in Mr Merdle's train.'

    'You know we may almost say we are related, sir,' said Mr Merdle,
    curiously interested in the pattern of the carpet, 'and, therefore, you
    may consider me at your service.'

    'Ha. Very handsome, indeed!' cried Mr Dorrit. 'Ha. Most handsome!'

    'It would not,' said Mr Merdle, 'be at the present moment easy for
    what I may call a mere outsider to come into any of the good things--of
    course I speak of my own good things--'

    'Of course, of course!' cried Mr Dorrit, in a tone implying that there
    were no other good things.

    '--Unless at a high price. At what we are accustomed to term a very long
    figure.'

    Mr Dorrit laughed in the buoyancy of his spirit. Ha, ha, ha! Long
    figure. Good. Ha. Very expressive to be sure!

    'However,' said Mr Merdle, 'I do generally retain in my own hands the
    power of exercising some preference--people in general would be pleased
    to call it favour--as a sort of compliment for my care and trouble.'

    'And public spirit and genius,' Mr Dorrit suggested.

    Mr Merdle, with a dry, swallowing action, seemed to dispose of those
    qualities like a bolus; then added, 'As a sort of return for it. I will
    see, if you please, how I can exert this limited power (for people are
            jealous, and it is limited), to your advantage.'

    'You are very good,' replied Mr Dorrit. 'You are _very_ good.'

    'Of course,' said Mr Merdle, 'there must be the strictest integrity
    and uprightness in these transactions; there must be the purest faith
    between man and man; there must be unimpeached and unimpeachable
    confidence; or business could not be carried on.'

    Mr Dorrit hailed these generous sentiments with fervour.

    'Therefore,' said Mr Merdle, 'I can only give you a preference to a
    certain extent.'

    'I perceive. To a defined extent,' observed Mr Dorrit.

    'Defined extent. And perfectly above-board. As to my advice, however,'
    said Mr Merdle, 'that is another matter. That, such as it is--'

    Oh! Such as it was! (Mr Dorrit could not bear the faintest appearance of
            its being depreciated, even by Mr Merdle himself.)

    '--That, there is nothing in the bonds of spotless honour between myself
    and my fellow-man to prevent my parting with, if I choose. And that,'
    said Mr Merdle, now deeply intent upon a dust-cart that was passing the
    windows, 'shall be at your command whenever you think proper.'

    New acknowledgments from Mr Dorrit. New passages of Mr Merdle's hand
    over his forehead. Calm and silence. Contemplation of Mr Dorrit's
    waistcoat buttons by Mr Merdle.

    'My time being rather precious,' said Mr Merdle, suddenly getting up,
    as if he had been waiting in the interval for his legs and they had just
    come, 'I must be moving towards the City. Can I take you anywhere, sir?
    I shall be happy to set you down, or send you on. My carriage is at your
    disposal.'

    Mr Dorrit bethought himself that he had business at his banker's. His
    banker's was in the City. That was fortunate; Mr Merdle would take
    him into the City. But, surely, he might not detain Mr Merdle while he
    assumed his coat? Yes, he might and must; Mr Merdle insisted on it. So
    Mr Dorrit, retiring into the next room, put himself under the hands of
    his valet, and in five minutes came back glorious.

    Then said Mr Merdle, 'Allow me, sir. Take my arm!' Then leaning on
    Mr Merdle's arm, did Mr Dorrit descend the staircase, seeing the
    worshippers on the steps, and feeling that the light of Mr Merdle shone
    by reflection in himself. Then the carriage, and the ride into the
    City; and the people who looked at them; and the hats that flew off grey
    heads; and the general bowing and crouching before this wonderful mortal
    the like of which prostration of spirit was not to be seen--no, by
    high Heaven, no! It may be worth thinking of by Fawners of all
    denominations--in Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul's Cathedral put
    together, on any Sunday in the year. It was a rapturous dream to Mr
    Dorrit to find himself set aloft in this public car of triumph, making a
    magnificent progress to that befitting destination, the golden Street of
    the Lombards.

    There Mr Merdle insisted on alighting and going his way a-foot, and
    leaving his poor equipage at Mr Dorrit's disposition. So the dream
    increased in rapture when Mr Dorrit came out of the bank alone, and
    people looked at _him_ in default of Mr Merdle, and when, with the ears of
    his mind, he heard the frequent exclamation as he rolled glibly along,
    'A wonderful man to be Mr Merdle's friend!'

    At dinner that day, although the occasion was not foreseen and provided
    for, a brilliant company of such as are not made of the dust of the
    earth, but of some superior article for the present unknown, shed
    their lustrous benediction upon Mr Dorrit's daughter's marriage. And Mr
    Dorrit's daughter that day began, in earnest, her competition with that
    woman not present; and began it so well that Mr Dorrit could all but
    have taken his affidavit, if required, that Mrs Sparkler had all her
    life been lying at full length in the lap of luxury, and had never heard
    of such a rough word in the English tongue as Marshalsea.

    Next day, and the day after, and every day, all graced by more dinner
    company, cards descended on Mr Dorrit like theatrical snow. As the
    friend and relative by marriage of the illustrious Merdle, Bar, Bishop,
    Treasury, Chorus, Everybody, wanted to make or improve Mr Dorrit's
    acquaintance. In Mr Merdle's heap of offices in the City, when Mr Dorrit
    appeared at any of them on his business taking him Eastward (which it
            frequently did, for it throve amazingly), the name of Dorrit was always
    a passport to the great presence of Merdle. So the dream increased in
    rapture every hour, as Mr Dorrit felt increasingly sensible that this
    connection had brought him forward indeed.

    Only one thing sat otherwise than auriferously, and at the same time
    lightly, on Mr Dorrit's mind. It was the Chief Butler. That stupendous
    character looked at him, in the course of his official looking at the
    dinners, in a manner that Mr Dorrit considered questionable. He looked
    at him, as he passed through the hall and up the staircase, going to
    dinner, with a glazed fixedness that Mr Dorrit did not like. Seated
    at table in the act of drinking, Mr Dorrit still saw him through his
    wine-glass, regarding him with a cold and ghostly eye. It misgave him
    that the Chief Butler must have known a Collegian, and must have seen
    him in the College--perhaps had been presented to him. He looked as
    closely at the Chief Butler as such a man could be looked at, and yet
    he did not recall that he had ever seen him elsewhere. Ultimately he was
    inclined to think that there was no reverence in the man, no sentiment
    in the great creature. But he was not relieved by that; for, let him
    think what he would, the Chief Butler had him in his supercilious eye,
    even when that eye was on the plate and other table-garniture; and he
    never let him out of it. To hint to him that this confinement in his eye
    was disagreeable, or to ask him what he meant, was an act too daring to
    venture upon; his severity with his employers and their visitors being
    terrific, and he never permitting himself to be approached with the
    slightest liberty.

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

completion: The happy couple is back in England and is welcomed very warmly by Merdle. Or rather, the already not-all-that happy couple is greeted in a limp and strange way by Merdle. But either way, Fanny sees that she is in the lap of ultimate luxury. Dorrit stays nearby in a hotel, and the next morning Merdle comes to see him. Dorrit is all pompous over-talking. Merdle is all meek and weird under-talking. Still, somehow they manage to exchange some compliments about joining families. Then Dorrit sneaks in his thoughts about where and how to invest his money. Merdle offers his own advice and even offers to use his power to get Dorrit into some choice and very selective investments. It'll be hard to arrange, but for Dorrit Merdle will try it. Oh, and also, these investments have to be done via gentleman's agreement, with none of your pesky low-class contracts. Oh joy! Dorrit is thrilled. Merdle offers him a ride into the City to go to his bank and move the money right away. Riding in the carriage with Merdle is totally amazing. Every single person in the street bows and takes off their hat. Everyone tries to figure out who Dorrit is. Dorrit, naturally, is beyond psyched. That night he has dinner with Merdle and starts to get to know the whole gang - Bar, Bishop, etc. Fanny shines and is clearly in her element. Only one thing bothers Dorrit - the Chief Butler makes him uneasy, like he knows about the prison.