prompt:
Chapter: Before breakfast in the morning, Arthur walked out to look about him.
As the morning was fine and he had an hour on his hands, he crossed the
river by the ferry, and strolled along a footpath through some meadows.
When he came back to the towing-path, he found the ferry-boat on the
opposite side, and a gentleman hailing it and waiting to be taken over.

This gentleman looked barely thirty. He was well dressed, of a sprightly
and gay appearance, a well-knit figure, and a rich dark complexion. As
Arthur came over the stile and down to the water's edge, the lounger
glanced at him for a moment, and then resumed his occupation of idly
tossing stones into the water with his foot. There was something in his
way of spurning them out of their places with his heel, and getting them
into the required position, that Clennam thought had an air of cruelty
in it. Most of us have more or less frequently derived a similar
impression from a man's manner of doing some very little thing: plucking
a flower, clearing away an obstacle, or even destroying an insentient
object.

The gentleman's thoughts were preoccupied, as his face showed, and he
took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively,
     and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the
     river on receiving his master's sign. The ferry-boat came over, however,
     without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him
     by the collar and walked him into it.

     'Not this morning,' he said to the dog. 'You won't do for ladies'
     company, dripping wet. Lie down.'

     Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat.
     The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing, with his hands
     in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect. Man and
     dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and
     went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them.

     The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little
     lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the
     bell a deep loud barking assailed him from within the wall.

     'I heard no dog last night,' thought Clennam. The gate was opened by
     one of the rosy maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the
     man.

     'Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen,' said the blushing portress, as
     they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the
     dog, 'Mr Clennam, sir,' and tripped away.

     'Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now,' said
     the man. Upon which the dog became mute. 'Allow me to introduce
     myself--Henry Gowan. A pretty place this, and looks wonderfully well
     this morning!'

     The manner was easy, and the voice agreeable; but still Clennam thought,
     that if he had not made that decided resolution to avoid falling in love
     with Pet, he would have taken a dislike to this Henry Gowan.

     'It's new to you, I believe?' said this Gowan, when Arthur had extolled
     the place.

     'Quite new. I made acquaintance with it only yesterday afternoon.'

     'Ah! Of course this is not its best aspect. It used to look charming in
     the spring, before they went away last time. I should like you to have
     seen it then.'

     But for that resolution so often recalled, Clennam might have wished him
     in the crater of Mount Etna, in return for this civility.

     'I have had the pleasure of seeing it under many circumstances during
     the last three years, and it's--a Paradise.'

     It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise
             resolution) like his dexterous impudence to call it a Paradise. He only
     called it a Paradise because he first saw her coming, and so made her
     out within her hearing to be an angel, Confusion to him!

     And ah! how beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed the dog,
     and how the dog knew her! How expressive that heightened colour in her
     face, that fluttered manner, her downcast eyes, her irresolute
     happiness! When had Clennam seen her look like this? Not that there was
     any reason why he might, could, would, or should have ever seen her look
     like this, or that he had ever hoped for himself to see her look like
     this; but still--when had he ever known her do it!

     He stood at a little distance from them. This Gowan when he had talked
     about a Paradise, had gone up to her and taken her hand. The dog had put
     his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom. She
     had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far,
     far, too much--that is to say, supposing there had been any third person
     looking on who loved her.

     She disengaged herself now, and came to Clennam, and put her hand in his
     and wished him good morning, and gracefully made as if she would take
     his arm and be escorted into the house. To this Gowan had no objection.
     No, he knew he was too safe.

     There was a passing cloud on Mr Meagles's good-humoured face when they
     all three (four, counting the dog, and he was the most objectionable
             but one of the party) came in to breakfast. Neither it, nor the touch
     of uneasiness on Mrs Meagles as she directed her eyes towards it, was
     unobserved by Clennam.

     'Well, Gowan,' said Mr Meagles, even suppressing a sigh; 'how goes the
     world with you this morning?'

     'Much as usual, sir. Lion and I being determined not to waste anything
     of our weekly visit, turned out early, and came over from Kingston, my
     present headquarters, where I am making a sketch or two.' Then he told
     how he had met Mr Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together.

     'Mrs Gowan is well, Henry?' said Mrs Meagles. (Clennam became
             attentive.)

     'My mother is quite well, thank you.' (Clennam became inattentive.) 'I
     have taken the liberty of making an addition to your family dinner-party
     to-day, which I hope will not be inconvenient to you or to Mr Meagles. I
     couldn't very well get out of it,' he explained, turning to the latter.
     'The young fellow wrote to propose himself to me; and as he is well
     connected, I thought you would not object to my transferring him here.'

     'Who _is_ the young fellow?' asked Mr Meagles with peculiar complacency.

     'He is one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle's son, Clarence Barnacle, who
     is in his father's Department. I can at least guarantee that the river
     shall not suffer from his visit. He won't set it on fire.'

     'Aye, aye?' said Meagles. 'A Barnacle is he? _We_ know something of that
     family, eh, Dan? By George, they are at the top of the tree, though! Let
     me see. What relation will this young fellow be to Lord Decimus now? His
     Lordship married, in seventeen ninety-seven, Lady Jemima Bilberry, who
     was the second daughter by the third marriage--no! There I am wrong!
     That was Lady Seraphina--Lady Jemima was the first daughter by the
     second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking with the
     Honourable Clementina Toozellem. Very well. Now this young fellow's
     father married a Stiltstalking and _his_ father married his cousin who
     was a Barnacle. The father of that father who married a Barnacle,
     married a Joddleby.--I am getting a little too far back, Gowan; I want
     to make out what relation this young fellow is to Lord Decimus.'

     'That's easily stated. His father is nephew to Lord Decimus.'

     'Nephew--to--Lord--Decimus,' Mr Meagles luxuriously repeated with his
     eyes shut, that he might have nothing to distract him from the full
     flavour of the genealogical tree. 'By George, you are right, Gowan. So
     he is.'

     'Consequently, Lord Decimus is his great uncle.'

     'But stop a bit!' said Mr Meagles, opening his eyes with a fresh
     discovery. 'Then on the mother's side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great
     aunt.'

     'Of course she is.'

     'Aye, aye, aye?' said Mr Meagles with much interest. 'Indeed, indeed? We
     shall be glad to see him. We'll entertain him as well as we can, in our
     humble way; and we shall not starve him, I hope, at all events.'

     In the beginning of this dialogue, Clennam had expected some great
     harmless outburst from Mr Meagles, like that which had made him burst
     out of the Circumlocution Office, holding Doyce by the collar. But his
     good friend had a weakness which none of us need go into the next street
     to find, and which no amount of Circumlocution experience could long
     subdue in him. Clennam looked at Doyce; but Doyce knew all about it
     beforehand, and looked at his plate, and made no sign, and said no word.

     'I am much obliged to you,' said Gowan, to conclude the subject.
     'Clarence is a great ass, but he is one of the dearest and best fellows
     that ever lived!'

     It appeared, before the breakfast was over, that everybody whom this
     Gowan knew was either more or less of an ass, or more or less of a
     knave; but was, notwithstanding, the most lovable, the most engaging,
     the simplest, truest, kindest, dearest, best fellow that ever lived.
     The process by which this unvarying result was attained, whatever the
     premises, might have been stated by Mr Henry Gowan thus: 'I claim to be
     always book-keeping, with a peculiar nicety, in every man's case, and
     posting up a careful little account of Good and Evil with him. I do
     this so conscientiously, that I am happy to tell you I find the most
     worthless of men to be the dearest old fellow too: and am in a condition
     to make the gratifying report, that there is much less difference than
     you are inclined to suppose between an honest man and a scoundrel.' The
     effect of this cheering discovery happened to be, that while he seemed
     to be scrupulously finding good in most men, he did in reality lower
     it where it was, and set it up where it was not; but that was its only
     disagreeable or dangerous feature.

     It scarcely seemed, however, to afford Mr Meagles as much satisfaction
     as the Barnacle genealogy had done. The cloud that Clennam had never
     seen upon his face before that morning, frequently overcast it again;
     and there was the same shadow of uneasy observation of him on the comely
     face of his wife. More than once or twice when Pet caressed the dog,
     it appeared to Clennam that her father was unhappy in seeing her do it;
and, in one particular instance when Gowan stood on the other side of
the dog, and bent his head at the same time, Arthur fancied that he saw
tears rise to Mr Meagles's eyes as he hurried out of the room. It was
either the fact too, or he fancied further, that Pet herself was not
insensible to these little incidents; that she tried, with a more
delicate affection than usual, to express to her good father how much
she loved him; that it was on this account that she fell behind the
rest, both as they went to church and as they returned from it, and
took his arm. He could not have sworn but that as he walked alone in
the garden afterwards, he had an instantaneous glimpse of her in
her father's room, clinging to both her parents with the greatest
tenderness, and weeping on her father's shoulder.

The latter part of the day turning out wet, they were fain to keep the
house, look over Mr Meagles's collection, and beguile the time with
conversation. This Gowan had plenty to say for himself, and said it
in an off-hand and amusing manner. He appeared to be an artist by
profession, and to have been at Rome some time; yet he had a slight,
    careless, amateur way with him--a perceptible limp, both in his devotion
    to art and his attainments--which Clennam could scarcely understand.

    He applied to Daniel Doyce for help, as they stood together, looking out
    of window.

    'You know Mr Gowan?' he said in a low voice.

    'I have seen him here. Comes here every Sunday when they are at home.'

    'An artist, I infer from what he says?'

    'A sort of a one,' said Daniel Doyce, in a surly tone.

    'What sort of a one?' asked Clennam, with a smile.

    'Why, he has sauntered into the Arts at a leisurely Pall-Mall pace,'
    said Doyce, 'and I doubt if they care to be taken quite so coolly.'

    Pursuing his inquiries, Clennam found that the Gowan family were a very
    distant ramification of the Barnacles; and that the paternal Gowan,
    originally attached to a legation abroad, had been pensioned off as a
    Commissioner of nothing particular somewhere or other, and had died at
    his post with his drawn salary in his hand, nobly defending it to the
    last extremity. In consideration of this eminent public service, the
    Barnacle then in power had recommended the Crown to bestow a pension of
    two or three hundred a-year on his widow; to which the next Barnacle in
    power had added certain shady and sedate apartments in the Palaces at
    Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, deploring the degeneracy
    of the times in company with several other old ladies of both sexes. Her
    son, Mr Henry Gowan, inheriting from his father, the Commissioner, that
    very questionable help in life, a very small independence, had been
    difficult to settle; the rather, as public appointments chanced to
    be scarce, and his genius, during his earlier manhood, was of that
    exclusively agricultural character which applies itself to the
    cultivation of wild oats. At last he had declared that he would become
    a Painter; partly because he had always had an idle knack that way,
    and partly to grieve the souls of the Barnacles-in-chief who had not
    provided for him. So it had come to pass successively, first, that
    several distinguished ladies had been frightfully shocked; then, that
    portfolios of his performances had been handed about o' nights, and
    declared with ecstasy to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, perfect
    phaenomena; then, that Lord Decimus had bought his picture, and had
    asked the President and Council to dinner at a blow, and had said, with
    his own magnificent gravity, 'Do you know, there appears to me to
    be really immense merit in that work?' and, in short, that people of
    condition had absolutely taken pains to bring him into fashion. But,
    somehow, it had all failed. The prejudiced public had stood out against
    it obstinately. They had determined not to admire Lord Decimus's
    picture. They had determined to believe that in every service, except
    their own, a man must qualify himself, by striving early and late, and
    by working heart and soul, might and main. So now Mr Gowan, like that
    worn-out old coffin which never was Mahomet's nor anybody else's, hung
    midway between two points: jaundiced and jealous as to the one he had
    left: jaundiced and jealous as to the other that he couldn't reach.

    Such was the substance of Clennam's discoveries concerning him, made
    that rainy Sunday afternoon and afterwards.

    About an hour or so after dinner time, Young Barnacle appeared, attended
    by his eye-glass; in honour of whose family connections, Mr Meagles had
    cashiered the pretty parlour-maids for the day, and had placed on duty
    in their stead two dingy men. Young Barnacle was in the last
    degree amazed and disconcerted at sight of Arthur, and had murmured
    involuntarily, 'Look here! upon my soul, you know!' before his presence
    of mind returned.

    Even then, he was obliged to embrace the earliest opportunity of taking
    his friend into a window, and saying, in a nasal way that was a part of
    his general debility:

    'I want to speak to you, Gowan. I say. Look here. Who is that fellow?'

    'A friend of our host's. None of mine.'

    'He's a most ferocious Radical, you know,' said Young Barnacle.

    'Is he? How do you know?'

    'Ecod, sir, he was Pitching into our people the other day in the most
    tremendous manner. Went up to our place and Pitched into my father to
    that extent that it was necessary to order him out. Came back to
    our Department, and Pitched into me. Look here. You never saw such a
    fellow.'

    'What did he want?'

    'Ecod, sir,' returned Young Barnacle, 'he said he wanted to know, you
    know! Pervaded our Department--without an appointment--and said he
    wanted to know!'

    The stare of indignant wonder with which Young Barnacle accompanied
    this disclosure, would have strained his eyes injuriously but for
    the opportune relief of dinner. Mr Meagles (who had been extremely
            solicitous to know how his uncle and aunt were) begged him to conduct
    Mrs Meagles to the dining-room. And when he sat on Mrs Meagles's right
    hand, Mr Meagles looked as gratified as if his whole family were there.

    All the natural charm of the previous day was gone. The eaters of the
    dinner, like the dinner itself, were lukewarm, insipid, overdone--and
    all owing to this poor little dull Young Barnacle. Conversationless at
    any time, he was now the victim of a weakness special to the occasion,
    and solely referable to Clennam. He was under a pressing and continual
    necessity of looking at that gentleman, which occasioned his eye-glass
    to get into his soup, into his wine-glass, into Mrs Meagles's plate, to
    hang down his back like a bell-rope, and be several times disgracefully
    restored to his bosom by one of the dingy men. Weakened in mind by his
    frequent losses of this instrument, and its determination not to stick
    in his eye, and more and more enfeebled in intellect every time he
    looked at the mysterious Clennam, he applied spoons to his eyes,
    forks, and other foreign matters connected with the furniture of the
    dinner-table. His discovery of these mistakes greatly increased his
    difficulties, but never released him from the necessity of looking at
    Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke, this ill-starred young man was
    clearly seized with a dread that he was coming, by some artful device,
    round to that point of wanting to know, you know.

    It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much
    enjoyment of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly enjoyed Young
    Barnacle. As a mere flask of the golden water in the tale became a full
    fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this
    small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole
    family-tree. In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities
    paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after
    something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange
    peculiarity on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another
    such case!

    At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young
    Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan
    went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken
    the most amiable pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam
    had been a little reserved since breakfast--that is to say, would have
    been, if he had loved her.

    When he had gone to his own room, and had again thrown himself into the
    chair by the fire, Mr Doyce knocked at the door, candle in hand, to
    ask him how and at what hour he proposed returning on the morrow? After
    settling this question, he said a word to Mr Doyce about this Gowan--who
    would have run in his head a good deal, if he had been his rival.

    'Those are not good prospects for a painter,' said Clennam.

    'No,' returned Doyce.

    Mr Doyce stood, chamber-candlestick in hand, the other hand in his
    pocket, looking hard at the flame of his candle, with a certain quiet
    perception in his face that they were going to say something more.

    'I thought our good friend a little changed, and out of spirits, after
    he came this morning?' said Clennam.

    'Yes,' returned Doyce.

    'But not his daughter?' said Clennam.

    'No,' said Doyce.

    There was a pause on both sides. Mr Doyce, still looking at the flame of
    his candle, slowly resumed:

    'The truth is, he has twice taken his daughter abroad in the hope of
    separating her from Mr Gowan. He rather thinks she is disposed to like
    him, and he has painful doubts (I quite agree with him, as I dare say
            you do) of the hopefulness of such a marriage.'

    'There--' Clennam choked, and coughed, and stopped.

    'Yes, you have taken cold,' said Daniel Doyce. But without looking at
    him.

    '--There is an engagement between them, of course?' said Clennam airily.

    'No. As I am told, certainly not. It has been solicited on the
    gentleman's part, but none has been made. Since their recent return,
    our friend has yielded to a weekly visit, but that is the utmost. Minnie
    would not deceive her father and mother. You have travelled with them,
    and I believe you know what a bond there is among them, extending even
    beyond this present life. All that there is between Miss Minnie and Mr
    Gowan, I have no doubt we see.'

    'Ah! We see enough!' cried Arthur.

    Mr Doyce wished him Good Night in the tone of a man who had heard a
    mournful, not to say despairing, exclamation, and who sought to infuse
    some encouragement and hope into the mind of the person by whom it had
    been uttered. Such tone was probably a part of his oddity, as one of
    a crotchety band; for how could he have heard anything of that kind,
    without Clennam's hearing it too?

    The rain fell heavily on the roof, and pattered on the ground, and
    dripped among the evergreens and the leafless branches of the trees. The
    rain fell heavily, drearily. It was a night of tears.

    If Clennam had not decided against falling in love with Pet; if he
    had had the weakness to do it; if he had, little by little, persuaded
    himself to set all the earnestness of his nature, all the might of his
    hope, and all the wealth of his matured character, on that cast; if
    he had done this and found that all was lost; he would have been,
    that night, unutterably miserable. As it was--

    As it was, the rain fell heavily, drearily.

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

completion: Arthur, Pet, Meagles, Henry Gowan, Doyce, Clarence Barnacle The next morning Henry Gowan comes down to the Meagleses. Arthur immediately hates him. Or he would, he tells himself, if he were in love with Pet. But since he's not, yay Gowan! To which we say, yeah right. Gowan is a lackadaisical cool guy who just coasts through life without seeming like he wants to achieve anything. He has an annoying habit of saying that good things are bad and bad things are good, making everything sound equal and valueless. This seems like a totally strange thing, but the narrator tells us it's very common. So Shmoop is going to go ahead and guess that Gowan is part of the political economy brigade that wants to equivocate and take moral value judgments out of everything. Of course, Pet is totally into Gowan. Arthur is jealous. Or would be, he tells himself, if he were in love. Good thing he's not. Oh, boy. Gowan invites Clarence Barnacle to dinner. Turns out the Gowans are distantly connected with the elite, super-fancy Barnacle family. And so we get to see Meagles's main failing: he's a butt-kissing suck-up snob. He is almost dancing with joy that this idiot Barnacle is having dinner with him. Clarence Barnacle, meanwhile, is freaking out to see Arthur there. He still remembers him from the Circumlocution Office as the guy who asked questions and actually wanted answers. After dinner Arthur and Doyce leave, and Doyce tells Arthur that the Meagleses aren't too psyched to have Gowan for a son-in-law, and that they keep taking Pet abroad to keep them apart. But every time they come back, Pet and Gowan get back together. Still, no formal engagement yet. Arthur tries to play it off, like why would he care. But clearly Doyce is onto him and his not-being-in-love-self-delusion.


prompt:
Chapter: Little Dorrit had not attained her twenty-second birthday without
finding a lover. Even in the shallow Marshalsea, the ever young Archer
shot off a few featherless arrows now and then from a mouldy bow, and
winged a Collegian or two.

Little Dorrit's lover, however, was not a Collegian. He was the
sentimental son of a turnkey. His father hoped, in the fulness of time,
            to leave him the inheritance of an unstained key; and had from his
            early youth familiarised him with the duties of his office, and with an
            ambition to retain the prison-lock in the family. While the succession
            was yet in abeyance, he assisted his mother in the conduct of a snug
            tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane (his father being
                    a non-resident turnkey), which could usually command a neat connection
            within the College walls.

            Years agone, when the object of his affections was wont to sit in her
            little arm-chair by the high Lodge-fender, Young John (family name,
                    Chivery), a year older than herself, had eyed her with admiring wonder.
            When he had played with her in the yard, his favourite game had been to
            counterfeit locking her up in corners, and to counterfeit letting
            her out for real kisses. When he grew tall enough to peep through the
            keyhole of the great lock of the main door, he had divers times set down
            his father's dinner, or supper, to get on as it might on the outer side
            thereof, while he stood taking cold in one eye by dint of peeping at her
            through that airy perspective.

            If Young John had ever slackened in his truth in the less penetrable
            days of his boyhood, when youth is prone to wear its boots unlaced and
            is happily unconscious of digestive organs, he had soon strung it up
            again and screwed it tight. At nineteen, his hand had inscribed in chalk
            on that part of the wall which fronted her lodgings, on the occasion of
            her birthday, 'Welcome sweet nursling of the Fairies!' At twenty-three,
            the same hand falteringly presented cigars on Sundays to the Father of
            the Marshalsea, and Father of the queen of his soul.

            Young John was small of stature, with rather weak legs and very weak
            light hair. One of his eyes (perhaps the eye that used to peep through
                    the keyhole) was also weak, and looked larger than the other, as if
            it couldn't collect itself. Young John was gentle likewise. But he was
            great of soul. Poetical, expansive, faithful.

            Though too humble before the ruler of his heart to be sanguine, Young
            John had considered the object of his attachment in all its lights and
            shades. Following it out to blissful results, he had descried, without
            self-commendation, a fitness in it. Say things prospered, and they were
            united. She, the child of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. There
            was a fitness in that. Say he became a resident turnkey. She would
            officially succeed to the chamber she had rented so long. There was a
            beautiful propriety in that. It looked over the wall, if you stood on
            tip-toe; and, with a trellis-work of scarlet beans and a canary or so,
            would become a very Arbour. There was a charming idea in that. Then,
            being all in all to one another, there was even an appropriate grace in
            the lock. With the world shut out (except that part of it which would
                    be shut in); with its troubles and disturbances only known to them by
            hearsay, as they would be described by the pilgrims tarrying with them
            on their way to the Insolvent Shrine; with the Arbour above, and the
            Lodge below; they would glide down the stream of time, in pastoral
            domestic happiness. Young John drew tears from his eyes by finishing the
            picture with a tombstone in the adjoining churchyard, close against the
            prison wall, bearing the following touching inscription: 'Sacred to
            the Memory Of JOHN CHIVERY, Sixty years Turnkey, and fifty years
            Head Turnkey, Of the neighbouring Marshalsea, Who departed this life,
            universally respected, on the thirty-first of December, One thousand
            eight hundred and eighty-six, Aged eighty-three years. Also of his truly
            beloved and truly loving wife, AMY, whose maiden name was DORRIT, Who
            survived his loss not quite forty-eight hours, And who breathed her last
            in the Marshalsea aforesaid. There she was born, There she lived, There
            she died.'

            The Chivery parents were not ignorant of their son's attachment--indeed
            it had, on some exceptional occasions, thrown him into a state of mind
            that had impelled him to conduct himself with irascibility towards the
            customers, and damage the business--but they, in their turns, had worked
            it out to desirable conclusions. Mrs Chivery, a prudent woman, had
            desired her husband to take notice that their John's prospects of the
            Lock would certainly be strengthened by an alliance with Miss Dorrit,
            who had herself a kind of claim upon the College and was much respected
            there. Mrs Chivery had desired her husband to take notice that if, on
            the one hand, their John had means and a post of trust, on the other
            hand, Miss Dorrit had family; and that her (Mrs Chivery's) sentiment
            was, that two halves made a whole. Mrs Chivery, speaking as a mother and
            not as a diplomatist, had then, from a different point of view, desired
            her husband to recollect that their John had never been strong, and
            that his love had fretted and worrited him enough as it was, without
            his being driven to do himself a mischief, as nobody couldn't say
            he wouldn't be if he was crossed. These arguments had so powerfully
            influenced the mind of Mr Chivery, who was a man of few words, that he
            had on sundry Sunday mornings, given his boy what he termed 'a lucky
            touch,' signifying that he considered such commendation of him to Good
            Fortune, preparatory to his that day declaring his passion and
            becoming triumphant. But Young John had never taken courage to make
            the declaration; and it was principally on these occasions that he had
            returned excited to the tobacco shop, and flown at the customers.

            In this affair, as in every other, Little Dorrit herself was the last
            person considered. Her brother and sister were aware of it, and attained
            a sort of station by making a peg of it on which to air the miserably
            ragged old fiction of the family gentility. Her sister asserted the
            family gentility by flouting the poor swain as he loitered about the
            prison for glimpses of his dear. Tip asserted the family gentility, and
            his own, by coming out in the character of the aristocratic brother, and
            loftily swaggering in the little skittle ground respecting seizures by
            the scruff of the neck, which there were looming probabilities of some
            gentleman unknown executing on some little puppy not mentioned. These
            were not the only members of the Dorrit family who turned it to account.
            No, no. The Father of the Marshalsea was supposed to know nothing about
            the matter, of course: his poor dignity could not see so low. But he
            took the cigars, on Sundays, and was glad to get them; and sometimes
            even condescended to walk up and down the yard with the donor (who was
                    proud and hopeful then), and benignantly to smoke one in his society.
            With no less readiness and condescension did he receive attentions from
            Chivery Senior, who always relinquished his arm-chair and newspaper to
            him, when he came into the Lodge during one of his spells of duty; and
            who had even mentioned to him, that, if he would like at any time after
            dusk quietly to step out into the fore-court and take a look at the
            street, there was not much to prevent him. If he did not avail himself
            of this latter civility, it was only because he had lost the relish for
            it; inasmuch as he took everything else he could get, and would say at
            times, 'Extremely civil person, Chivery; very attentive man and very
            respectful. Young Chivery, too; really almost with a delicate perception
            of one's position here. A very well conducted family indeed, the
            Chiveries. Their behaviour gratifies me.'

            The devoted Young John all this time regarded the family with reverence.
            He never dreamed of disputing their pretensions, but did homage to the
            miserable Mumbo jumbo they paraded. As to resenting any affront from _her_
            brother, he would have felt, even if he had not naturally been of a most
            pacific disposition, that to wag his tongue or lift his hand against
            that sacred gentleman would be an unhallowed act. He was sorry that
            his noble mind should take offence; still, he felt the fact to be not
            incompatible with its nobility, and sought to propitiate and conciliate
            that gallant soul. Her father, a gentleman in misfortune--a gentleman of
            a fine spirit and courtly manners, who always bore with him--he deeply
            honoured. Her sister he considered somewhat vain and proud, but a young
            lady of infinite accomplishments, who could not forget the past. It was
            an instinctive testimony to Little Dorrit's worth and difference from
            all the rest, that the poor young fellow honoured and loved her for
            being simply what she was.

            The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried
            out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of
            the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a
            retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business
            was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander, but it
            maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like
            a fallen Cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt.

            From the portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of
            baked viands, Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand; not
            empty-handed, but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly attired in
            a plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his
            figure could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a
            chaste neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing a preserve of
            lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with
            side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of
            state very high and hard. When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that
            in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid
            gloves, and a cane like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory
            hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in
            this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to
            Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which
            way the wind blew.

            The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that
            Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of
            receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little
            Dorrit's lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his
            knuckles at the Father's door.

            'Come in, come in!' said a gracious voice. The Father's voice, her
            father's, the Marshalsea's father's. He was seated in his black velvet
            cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the
            table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his
            Court.

            'Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!'

            'Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.'

            'Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.'

            'I have taken the liberty, sir, of--'

            'Eh?' The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows at this
            point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent in mind.

            '--A few cigars, sir.'

            'Oh!' (For the moment, excessively surprised.) 'Thank you, Young John,
            thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too--No? Well then, I will say
            no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young
            John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.'

            'Thank you, sir, I am sure--Miss;' here Young John turned the great hat
            round and round upon his left-hand, like a slowly twirling mouse-cage;
            'Miss Amy quite well, sir?'

            'Yes, John, yes; very well. She is out.'

            'Indeed, sir?'

            'Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. My young people all go out a
            good deal. But at their time of life, it's natural, John.'

            'Very much so, I am sure, sir.'

            'An airing. An airing. Yes.' He was blandly tapping his fingers on
            the table, and casting his eyes up at the window. 'Amy has gone for
            an airing on the Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to the Iron
            Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there better than anywhere.'
            He returned to conversation. 'Your father is not on duty at present, I
            think, John?'

            'No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon.' Another twirl of the
            great hat, and then Young John said, rising, 'I am afraid I must wish
            you good day, sir.'

            'So soon? Good day, Young John. Nay, nay,' with the utmost
            condescension, 'never mind your glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You
            are no stranger here, you know.'

            Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, Young John descended
            the staircase. On his way down he met some Collegians bringing up
            visitors to be presented, and at that moment Mr Dorrit happened to call
            over the banisters with particular distinctness, 'Much obliged to you
            for your little testimonial, John!'

            Little Dorrit's lover very soon laid down his penny on the tollplate of
            the Iron Bridge, and came upon it looking about him for the well-known
            and well-beloved figure. At first he feared she was not there; but as he
            walked on towards the Middlesex side, he saw her standing still, looking
            at the water. She was absorbed in thought, and he wondered what
            she might be thinking about. There were the piles of city roofs and
            chimneys, more free from smoke than on week-days; and there were the
            distant masts and steeples. Perhaps she was thinking about them.

            Little Dorrit mused so long, and was so entirely preoccupied, that
            although her lover stood quiet for what he thought was a long time, and
            twice or thrice retired and came back again to the former spot, still
            she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his mind to go on, and seem
            to come upon her casually in passing, and speak to her. The place was
            quiet, and now or never was the time to speak to her.

            He walked on, and she did not appear to hear his steps until he was
            close upon her. When he said 'Miss Dorrit!' she started and fell back
            from him, with an expression in her face of fright and something like
            dislike that caused him unutterable dismay. She had often avoided him
            before--always, indeed, for a long, long while. She had turned away and
            glided off so often when she had seen him coming toward her, that the
            unfortunate Young John could not think it accidental. But he had hoped
            that it might be shyness, her retiring character, her foreknowledge of
            the state of his heart, anything short of aversion. Now, that momentary
            look had said, 'You, of all people! I would rather have seen any one on
            earth than you!'

            It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she checked it, and said in her
            soft little voice, 'Oh, Mr John! Is it you?' But she felt what it had
            been, as he felt what it had been; and they stood looking at one another
            equally confused.

            'Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speaking to you.'

            'Yes, rather. I--I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.'

            'Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, because Mr Dorrit
            chanced to mention, when I called upon him just now, that you--'

            She caused him more dismay than before by suddenly murmuring, 'O father,
            father!' in a heartrending tone, and turning her face away.

            'Miss Amy, I hope I don't give you any uneasiness by naming Mr Dorrit.
            I assure you I found him very well and in the best of Spirits, and he
            showed me even more than his usual kindness; being so very kind as to
            say that I was not a stranger there, and in all ways gratifying me very
            much.'

            To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, Little Dorrit, with her
            hands to her averted face, and rocking herself where she stood as if she
            were in pain, murmured, 'O father, how can you! O dear, dear father, how
            can you, can you, do it!'

            The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing with sympathy, but not
            knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her handkerchief
            and put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At first he
            remained stock still; then hurried after her.

            'Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment? Miss Amy,
            if it comes to that, let _me_ go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have
            to think that I have driven you away like this.'

            His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to
            a stop. 'Oh, I don't know what to do,' she cried, 'I don't know what to
            do!'

            To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-command,
            who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed,
            there was a shock in her distress, and in having to associate himself
            with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the
            pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be
            misunderstood--supposed to mean something, or to have done something,
            that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him
            explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him.

            'Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were
            vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever
            I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false
            representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know very well
            that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn
            me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be
            admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence on which they
            are placed from my lowlier station--for, whether viewed as tobacco or
            viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly--and ever wish them well and
            happy.'

            There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast
            between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit,
                    perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him
            to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to
            divest himself of any idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This
            gave him a little comfort.

            'Miss Amy,' he then stammered, 'I have had for a long time--ages they
            seem to me--Revolving ages--a heart-cherished wish to say something to
            you. May I say it?'

            Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the
            faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at
            great speed half across the Bridge without replying!

            'May I--Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly--may I say it? I have
            been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such
            intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying
            it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up
            by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would
            fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment's joy to! Not that
            that's much to do, for I'd do it for twopence.'

            The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his appearance,
            might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy made him
            respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do.

            'If you please, John Chivery,' she returned, trembling, but in a quiet
            way, 'since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say
            any more--if you please, no.'

            'Never, Miss Amy?'

            'No, if you please. Never.'

            'O Lord!' gasped Young John.

            'But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I want
            to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is possible to
            express. When you think of us, John--I mean my brother, and sister,
            and me--don't think of us as being any different from the rest; for,
            whatever we once were (which I hardly know) we ceased to be long ago,
            and never can be any more. It will be much better for you, and much
            better for others, if you will do that instead of what you are doing
            now.'

            Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in mind, and
            would be heartily glad to do anything she wished.

            'As to me,' said Little Dorrit, 'think as little of me as you can; the
            less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it only be as
            the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties
            always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented, unprotected girl. I
            particularly want you to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I
            am unprotected and solitary.'

            He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so much
            want him to remember that?

            'Because,' returned Little Dorrit, 'I know I can then quite trust you
            not to forget to-day, and not to say any more to me. You are so generous
            that I know I can trust to you for that; and I do and I always will. I
            am going to show you, at once, that I fully trust you. I like this place
            where we are speaking better than any place I know;' her slight colour
            had faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back just then; 'and I
            may be often here. I know it is only necessary for me to tell you so, to
            be quite sure that you will never come here again in search of me. And I
            am--quite sure!'

            She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was a miserable wretch, but
            her word was more than a law for him.

            'And good-bye, John,' said Little Dorrit. 'And I hope you will have a
            good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be
            happy, and you will be, John.'

            As she held out her hand to him with these words, the heart that was
            under the waistcoat of sprigs--mere slop-work, if the truth must be
            known--swelled to the size of the heart of a gentleman; and the poor
            common little fellow, having no room to hold it, burst into tears.

            'Oh, don't cry,' said Little Dorrit piteously. 'Don't, don't! Good-bye,
            John. God bless you!'

            'Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!'

            And so he left her: first observing that she sat down on the corner of a
            seat, and not only rested her little hand upon the rough wall, but laid
            her face against it too, as if her head were heavy, and her mind were
            sad.

            It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of human projects,
            to behold her lover, with the great hat pulled over his eyes, the velvet
            collar turned up as if it rained, the plum-coloured coat buttoned
            to conceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the little
            direction-post pointing inexorably home, creeping along by the worst
            back-streets, and composing, as he went, the following new inscription
            for a tombstone in St George's Churchyard:

            'Here lie the mortal remains Of JOHN CHIVERY, Never anything worth
            mentioning, Who died about the end of the year one thousand eight
            hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken heart, Requesting with his last
            breath that the word AMY might be inscribed over his ashes, which was
            accordingly directed to be done, By his afflicted Parents.'

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

completion: The prison's new turnkey has a son named John Chivery, who is basically an emo boy: thin, pale, emotional, and constantly fantasizing about what his tombstone will say. This John Chivery has a huge crush on Little Dorrit. His parents are into the two of them getting married, thinking that he will bring money and she will bring social status to the marriage. This is funny, because her social status is high only for the delusionals inside the prison. John spends a lot of time trying to butter up the Dorrit family. Tip and Fanny put on a lot of airs and generally treat him as one step above a servant. Mr. Dorrit, on the other hand, is happy to accept his constant gifts of cigars and pretends like he doesn't know what they're for. One day John brings by some cigars and asks about Amy. Dorrit tells him casually that Amy is out for a walk on the Iron Bridge. John takes off, with Dorrit still pretending like he doesn't know what's going on. John finds Little Dorrit staring into the water on the bridge. He walks up to her and starts to propose. Little Dorrit immediately freaks out, tries to run away, and generally seems to really really not want to deal with his declarations of love. He lets slip that it was actually her father that hinted for him to come here. Little Dorrit is floored that dear old dad would sell her out for some cigars. John asks her permission to start telling her all about his feelings, and she takes him literally and declines to give her permission. She also tells him that since he is such a nice, kind guy, she hopes he'll never talk about that stuff ever again. He promises. Then he walks home composing sad obituaries for himself dying of a broken heart. Fast forward a hundred years and he'd be writing a depressing acoustic guitar song in his bedroom.


prompt:
Chapter: The brothers William and Frederick Dorrit, walking up and down the
College-yard--of course on the aristocratic or Pump side, for the Father
made it a point of his state to be chary of going among his children
on the Poor side, except on Sunday mornings, Christmas Days, and other
occasions of ceremony, in the observance whereof he was very punctual,
          and at which times he laid his hand upon the heads of their infants,
          and blessed those young insolvents with a benignity that was highly
          edifying--the brothers, walking up and down the College-yard together,
          were a memorable sight. Frederick the free, was so humbled, bowed,
          withered, and faded; William the bond, was so courtly, condescending,
          and benevolently conscious of a position; that in this regard only, if
          in no other, the brothers were a spectacle to wonder at.

          They walked up and down the yard on the evening of Little Dorrit's
          Sunday interview with her lover on the Iron Bridge. The cares of state
          were over for that day, the Drawing Room had been well attended, several
          new presentations had taken place, the three-and-sixpence accidentally
          left on the table had accidentally increased to twelve shillings, and
          the Father of the Marshalsea refreshed himself with a whiff of cigar. As
          he walked up and down, affably accommodating his step to the shuffle of
          his brother, not proud in his superiority, but considerate of that poor
          creature, bearing with him, and breathing toleration of his infirmities
          in every little puff of smoke that issued from his lips and aspired to
          get over the spiked wall, he was a sight to wonder at.

          His brother Frederick of the dim eye, palsied hand, bent form, and
          groping mind, submissively shuffled at his side, accepting his patronage
          as he accepted every incident of the labyrinthian world in which he had
          got lost. He held the usual screwed bit of whitey-brown paper in his
          hand, from which he ever and again unscrewed a spare pinch of snuff.
          That falteringly taken, he would glance at his brother not unadmiringly,
          put his hands behind him, and shuffle on so at his side until he took
          another pinch, or stood still to look about him--perchance suddenly
          missing his clarionet.

          The College visitors were melting away as the shades of night drew on,
          but the yard was still pretty full, the Collegians being mostly out,
          seeing their friends to the Lodge. As the brothers paced the yard,
          William the bond looked about him to receive salutes, returned them by
          graciously lifting off his hat, and, with an engaging air, prevented
          Frederick the free from running against the company, or being jostled
          against the wall. The Collegians as a body were not easily impressible,
          but even they, according to their various ways of wondering, appeared to
          find in the two brothers a sight to wonder at.

          'You are a little low this evening, Frederick,' said the Father of the
          Marshalsea. 'Anything the matter?'

          'The matter?' He stared for a moment, and then dropped his head and eyes
          again. 'No, William, no. Nothing is the matter.'

          'If you could be persuaded to smarten yourself up a little, Frederick--'

          'Aye, aye!' said the old man hurriedly. 'But I can't be. I can't be.
          Don't talk so. That's all over.'

          The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing Collegian with whom he
          was on friendly terms, as who should say, 'An enfeebled old man, this;
          but he is my brother, sir, my brother, and the voice of Nature is
          potent!' and steered his brother clear of the handle of the pump by the
          threadbare sleeve. Nothing would have been wanting to the perfection of
          his character as a fraternal guide, philosopher and friend, if he had
          only steered his brother clear of ruin, instead of bringing it upon him.

          'I think, William,' said the object of his affectionate consideration,
          'that I am tired, and will go home to bed.'

          'My dear Frederick,' returned the other, 'don't let me detain you; don't
          sacrifice your inclination to me.'

          'Late hours, and a heated atmosphere, and years, I suppose,' said
          Frederick, 'weaken me.'

          'My dear Frederick,' returned the Father of the Marshalsea, 'do you
          think you are sufficiently careful of yourself? Do you think your habits
          are as precise and methodical as--shall I say as mine are? Not to revert
          again to that little eccentricity which I mentioned just now, I doubt if
          you take air and exercise enough, Frederick. Here is the parade, always
          at your service. Why not use it more regularly than you do?'

          'Hah!' sighed the other. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes.'

          'But it is of no use saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,' the Father
          of the Marshalsea in his mild wisdom persisted, 'unless you act on that
          assent. Consider my case, Frederick. I am a kind of example. Necessity
          and time have taught me what to do. At certain stated hours of the day,
          you will find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the
          paper, receiving company, eating and drinking. I have impressed upon Amy
          during many years, that I must have my meals (for instance) punctually.
          Amy has grown up in a sense of the importance of these arrangements, and
          you know what a good girl she is.'

          The brother only sighed again, as he plodded dreamily along, 'Hah! Yes,
          yes, yes, yes.'

          'My dear fellow,' said the Father of the Marshalsea, laying his hand
          upon his shoulder, and mildly rallying him--mildly, because of his
          weakness, poor dear soul; 'you said that before, and it does not express
          much, Frederick, even if it means much. I wish I could rouse you, my
          good Frederick; you want to be roused.'

          'Yes, William, yes. No doubt,' returned the other, lifting his dim eyes
          to his face. 'But I am not like you.'

          The Father of the Marshalsea said, with a shrug of modest
          self-depreciation, 'Oh! You might be like me, my dear Frederick;
          you might be, if you chose!' and forbore, in the magnanimity of his
          strength, to press his fallen brother further.

          There was a great deal of leave-taking going on in corners, as was usual
          on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, wife
          or mother, was weeping with a new Collegian. The time had been when the
          Father himself had wept, in the shades of that yard, as his own
          poor wife had wept. But it was many years ago; and now he was like
          a passenger aboard ship in a long voyage, who has recovered from
          sea-sickness, and is impatient of that weakness in the fresher
          passengers taken aboard at the last port. He was inclined to
          remonstrate, and to express his opinion that people who couldn't get on
          without crying, had no business there. In manner, if not in words, he
          always testified his displeasure at these interruptions of the general
          harmony; and it was so well understood, that delinquents usually
          withdrew if they were aware of him.

          On this Sunday evening, he accompanied his brother to the gate with an
          air of endurance and clemency; being in a bland temper and graciously
          disposed to overlook the tears. In the flaring gaslight of the Lodge,
          several Collegians were basking; some taking leave of visitors, and
          some who had no visitors, watching the frequent turning of the key, and
          conversing with one another and with Mr Chivery. The paternal entrance
          made a sensation of course; and Mr Chivery, touching his hat (in a short
                  manner though) with his key, hoped he found himself tolerable.

          'Thank you, Chivery, quite well. And you?'

          Mr Chivery said in a low growl, 'Oh! _he_ was all right.' Which was his
          general way of acknowledging inquiries after his health when a little
          sullen.

          'I had a visit from Young John to-day, Chivery. And very smart he
          looked, I assure you.'

          So Mr Chivery had heard. Mr Chivery must confess, however, that his wish
          was that the boy didn't lay out so much money upon it. For what did it
          bring him in? It only brought him in wexation. And he could get that
          anywhere for nothing.

          'How vexation, Chivery?' asked the benignant father.

          'No odds,' returned Mr Chivery. 'Never mind. Mr Frederick going out?'

          'Yes, Chivery, my brother is going home to bed. He is tired, and
          not quite well. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear
          Frederick!'

          Shaking hands with his brother, and touching his greasy hat to the
          company in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out of the door which
          Mr Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea showed the
          amiable solicitude of a superior being that he should come to no harm.

          'Be so kind as to keep the door open a moment, Chivery, that I may see
          him go along the passage and down the steps. Take care, Frederick! (He
                  is very infirm.) Mind the steps! (He is so very absent.) Be careful
          how you cross, Frederick. (I really don't like the notion of his going
                  wandering at large, he is so extremely liable to be run over.)'

          With these words, and with a face expressive of many uneasy doubts and
          much anxious guardianship, he turned his regards upon the assembled
          company in the Lodge: so plainly indicating that his brother was to be
          pitied for not being under lock and key, that an opinion to that effect
          went round among the Collegians assembled.

          But he did not receive it with unqualified assent; on the contrary, he
          said, No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him. His brother
          Frederick was much broken, no doubt, and it might be more comfortable to
          himself (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that he was safe within
          the walls. Still, it must be remembered that to support an existence
          there during many years, required a certain combination of qualities--he
          did not say high qualities, but qualities--moral qualities. Now, had his
          brother Frederick that peculiar union of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a
          most excellent man, a most gentle, tender, and estimable man, with the
          simplicity of a child; but would he, though unsuited for most other
          places, do for that place? No; he said confidently, no! And, he said,
          Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any other character
          than in his present voluntary character! Gentlemen, whoever came to
          that College, to remain there a length of time, must have strength of
          character to go through a good deal and to come out of a good deal. Was
          his beloved brother Frederick that man? No. They saw him, even as it
          was, crushed. Misfortune crushed him. He had not power of recoil enough,
          not elasticity enough, to be a long time in such a place, and yet
          preserve his self-respect and feel conscious that he was a gentleman.
          Frederick had not (if he might use the expression) Power enough to see
          in any delicate little attentions and--and--Testimonials that he might
          under such circumstances receive, the goodness of human nature, the fine
          spirit animating the Collegians as a community, and at the same time
          no degradation to himself, and no depreciation of his claims as a
          gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you!

          Such was the homily with which he improved and pointed the occasion to
          the company in the Lodge before turning into the sallow yard again,
          and going with his own poor shabby dignity past the Collegian in the
          dressing-gown who had no coat, and past the Collegian in the sea-side
          slippers who had no shoes, and past the stout greengrocer Collegian in
          the corduroy knee-breeches who had no cares, and past the lean clerk
          Collegian in buttonless black who had no hopes, up his own poor shabby
          staircase to his own poor shabby room.

          There, the table was laid for his supper, and his old grey gown was
          ready for him on his chair-back at the fire. His daughter put her
          little prayer-book in her pocket--had she been praying for pity on all
          prisoners and captives!--and rose to welcome him.

          Uncle had gone home, then? she asked him, as she changed his coat and
          gave him his black velvet cap. Yes, uncle had gone home. Had her father
          enjoyed his walk? Why, not much, Amy; not much. No! Did he not feel
          quite well?

          As she stood behind him, leaning over his chair so lovingly, he looked
          with downcast eyes at the fire. An uneasiness stole over him that was
          like a touch of shame; and when he spoke, as he presently did, it was in
          an unconnected and embarrassed manner.

          'Something, I--hem!--I don't know what, has gone wrong with Chivery.
          He is not--ha!--not nearly so obliging and attentive as usual to-night.
          It--hem!--it's a little thing, but it puts me out, my love. It's
          impossible to forget,' turning his hands over and over and looking
          closely at them, 'that--hem!--that in such a life as mine, I am
          unfortunately dependent on these men for something every hour in the
          day.'

          Her arm was on his shoulder, but she did not look in his face while he
          spoke. Bending her head she looked another way.

          'I--hem!--I can't think, Amy, what has given Chivery offence. He is
          generally so--so very attentive and respectful. And to-night he was
          quite--quite short with me. Other people there too! Why, good Heaven!
          if I was to lose the support and recognition of Chivery and his brother
          officers, I might starve to death here.' While he spoke, he was opening
          and shutting his hands like valves; so conscious all the time of that
          touch of shame, that he shrunk before his own knowledge of his meaning.

          'I--ha!--I can't think what it's owing to. I am sure I cannot imagine
          what the cause of it is. There was a certain Jackson here once, a
          turnkey of the name of Jackson (I don't think you can remember him,
                  my dear, you were very young), and--hem!--and he had a--brother, and
          this--young brother paid his addresses to--at least, did not go so far
          as to pay his addresses to--but admired--respectfully admired--the--not
          daughter, the sister--of one of us; a rather distinguished Collegian; I
          may say, very much so. His name was Captain Martin; and he
          consulted me on the question whether it was necessary that his
          daughter--sister--should hazard offending the turnkey brother by
          being too--ha!--too plain with the other brother. Captain Martin was
          a gentleman and a man of honour, and I put it to him first to give me
          his--his own opinion. Captain Martin (highly respected in the army) then
          unhesitatingly said that it appeared to him that his--hem!--sister was
          not called upon to understand the young man too distinctly, and that
          she might lead him on--I am doubtful whether "lead him on" was Captain
          Martin's exact expression: indeed I think he said tolerate him--on her
          father's--I should say, brother's--account. I hardly know how I have
          strayed into this story. I suppose it has been through being unable to
          account for Chivery; but as to the connection between the two, I don't
          see--'

          His voice died away, as if she could not bear the pain of hearing him,
          and her hand had gradually crept to his lips. For a little while there
          was a dead silence and stillness; and he remained shrunk in his chair,
          and she remained with her arm round his neck and her head bowed down
          upon his shoulder.

          His supper was cooking in a saucepan on the fire, and, when she moved,
          it was to make it ready for him on the table. He took his usual seat,
          she took hers, and he began his meal. They did not, as yet, look at one
          another. By little and little he began; laying down his knife and fork
          with a noise, taking things up sharply, biting at his bread as if he
          were offended with it, and in other similar ways showing that he was out
          of sorts. At length he pushed his plate from him, and spoke aloud; with
          the strangest inconsistency.

          'What does it matter whether I eat or starve? What does it matter
          whether such a blighted life as mine comes to an end, now, next week, or
          next year? What am I worth to anyone? A poor prisoner, fed on alms and
          broken victuals; a squalid, disgraced wretch!'

          'Father, father!' As he rose she went on her knees to him, and held up
          her hands to him.

          'Amy,' he went on in a suppressed voice, trembling violently, and
          looking at her as wildly as if he had gone mad. 'I tell you, if you
          could see me as your mother saw me, you wouldn't believe it to be the
          creature you have only looked at through the bars of this cage. I was
          young, I was accomplished, I was good-looking, I was independent--by God
          I was, child!--and people sought me out, and envied me. Envied me!'

          'Dear father!' She tried to take down the shaking arm that he flourished
          in the air, but he resisted, and put her hand away.

          'If I had but a picture of myself in those days, though it was ever so
          ill done, you would be proud of it, you would be proud of it. But I have
          no such thing. Now, let me be a warning! Let no man,' he cried, looking
          haggardly about, 'fail to preserve at least that little of the times of
          his prosperity and respect. Let his children have that clue to what he
          was. Unless my face, when I am dead, subsides into the long departed
          look--they say such things happen, I don't know--my children will have
          never seen me.'

          'Father, father!'

          'O despise me, despise me! Look away from me, don't listen to me, stop
          me, blush for me, cry for me--even you, Amy! Do it, do it! I do it to
          myself! I am hardened now, I have sunk too low to care long even for
          that.'

          'Dear father, loved father, darling of my heart!' She was clinging to
          him with her arms, and she got him to drop into his chair again, and
          caught at the raised arm, and tried to put it round her neck.

          'Let it lie there, father. Look at me, father, kiss me, father! Only
          think of me, father, for one little moment!'

          Still he went on in the same wild way, though it was gradually breaking
          down into a miserable whining.

          'And yet I have some respect here. I have made some stand against it. I
          am not quite trodden down. Go out and ask who is the chief person in the
          place. They'll tell you it's your father. Go out and ask who is never
          trifled with, and who is always treated with some delicacy. They'll say,
          your father. Go out and ask what funeral here (it must be here, I know
                  it can be nowhere else) will make more talk, and perhaps more grief,
          than any that has ever gone out at the gate. They'll say your father's.
          Well then. Amy! Amy! Is your father so universally despised? Is there
          nothing to redeem him? Will you have nothing to remember him by but his
          ruin and decay? Will you be able to have no affection for him when he is
          gone, poor castaway, gone?'

          He burst into tears of maudlin pity for himself, and at length suffering
          her to embrace him and take charge of him, let his grey head rest
          against her cheek, and bewailed his wretchedness. Presently he changed
          the subject of his lamentations, and clasping his hands about her as she
          embraced him, cried, O Amy, his motherless, forlorn child! O the days
          that he had seen her careful and laborious for him! Then he reverted to
          himself, and weakly told her how much better she would have loved him
          if she had known him in his vanished character, and how he would have
          married her to a gentleman who should have been proud of her as his
          daughter, and how (at which he cried again) she should first have ridden
          at his fatherly side on her own horse, and how the crowd (by which he
                  meant in effect the people who had given him the twelve shillings
                  he then had in his pocket) should have trudged the dusty roads
          respectfully.

          Thus, now boasting, now despairing, in either fit a captive with the
          jail-rot upon him, and the impurity of his prison worn into the grain of
          his soul, he revealed his degenerate state to his affectionate child.
          No one else ever beheld him in the details of his humiliation. Little
          recked the Collegians who were laughing in their rooms over his late
          address in the Lodge, what a serious picture they had in their obscure
          gallery of the Marshalsea that Sunday night.

          There was a classical daughter once--perhaps--who ministered to her
          father in his prison as her mother had ministered to her. Little Dorrit,
          though of the unheroic modern stock and mere English, did much more,
          in comforting her father's wasted heart upon her innocent breast, and
          turning to it a fountain of love and fidelity that never ran dry or
          waned through all his years of famine.

          She soothed him; asked him for his forgiveness if she had been, or
          seemed to have been, undutiful; told him, Heaven knows truly, that she
          could not honour him more if he were the favourite of Fortune and the
          whole world acknowledged him. When his tears were dried, and he sobbed
          in his weakness no longer, and was free from that touch of shame, and
          had recovered his usual bearing, she prepared the remains of his supper
          afresh, and, sitting by his side, rejoiced to see him eat and drink. For
          now he sat in his black velvet cap and old grey gown, magnanimous again;
          and would have comported himself towards any Collegian who might have
          looked in to ask his advice, like a great moral Lord Chesterfield, or
          Master of the ethical ceremonies of the Marshalsea.

          To keep his attention engaged, she talked with him about his wardrobe;
          when he was pleased to say, that Yes, indeed, those shirts she proposed
          would be exceedingly acceptable, for those he had were worn out, and,
          being ready-made, had never fitted him. Being conversational, and in a
          reasonable flow of spirits, he then invited her attention to his coat
          as it hung behind the door: remarking that the Father of the place
          would set an indifferent example to his children, already disposed to be
          slovenly, if he went among them out at elbows. He was jocular, too,
          as to the heeling of his shoes; but became grave on the subject of his
          cravat, and promised her that, when she could afford it, she should buy
          him a new one.

          While he smoked out his cigar in peace, she made his bed, and put the
          small room in order for his repose. Being weary then, owing to the
          advanced hour and his emotions, he came out of his chair to bless her
          and wish her Good night. All this time he had never once thought of _her_
          dress, her shoes, her need of anything. No other person upon earth, save
          herself, could have been so unmindful of her wants.

          He kissed her many times with 'Bless you, my love. Good night, my dear!'

          But her gentle breast had been so deeply wounded by what she had seen of
          him that she was unwilling to leave him alone, lest he should lament
          and despair again. 'Father, dear, I am not tired; let me come back
          presently, when you are in bed, and sit by you.'

          He asked her, with an air of protection, if she felt solitary?

          'Yes, father.'

          'Then come back by all means, my love.'

          'I shall be very quiet, father.'

          'Don't think of me, my dear,' he said, giving her his kind permission
          fully. 'Come back by all means.'

          He seemed to be dozing when she returned, and she put the low fire
          together very softly lest she should awake him. But he overheard her,
          and called out who was that?

          'Only Amy, father.'

          'Amy, my child, come here. I want to say a word to you.'

          He raised himself a little in his low bed, as she kneeled beside it to
          bring her face near him; and put his hand between hers. O! Both the
          private father and the Father of the Marshalsea were strong within him
          then.

          'My love, you have had a life of hardship here. No companions, no
          recreations, many cares I am afraid?'

          'Don't think of that, dear. I never do.'

          'You know my position, Amy. I have not been able to do much for you; but
          all I have been able to do, I have done.'

          'Yes, my dear father,' she rejoined, kissing him. 'I know, I know.'

          'I am in the twenty-third year of my life here,' he said, with a catch
          in his breath that was not so much a sob as an irrepressible sound of
          self-approval, the momentary outburst of a noble consciousness. 'It is
          all I could do for my children--I have done it. Amy, my love, you are
          by far the best loved of the three; I have had you principally in my
          mind--whatever I have done for your sake, my dear child, I have done
          freely and without murmuring.'

          Only the wisdom that holds the clue to all hearts and all mysteries, can
          surely know to what extent a man, especially a man brought down as this
          man had been, can impose upon himself. Enough, for the present place,
          that he lay down with wet eyelashes, serene, in a manner majestic, after
          bestowing his life of degradation as a sort of portion on the devoted
          child upon whom its miseries had fallen so heavily, and whose love alone
          had saved him to be even what he was.

          That child had no doubts, asked herself no question, for she was but too
          content to see him with a lustre round his head. Poor dear, good dear,
          truest, kindest, dearest, were the only words she had for him, as she
          hushed him to rest.

          She never left him all that night. As if she had done him a wrong which
          her tenderness could hardly repair, she sat by him in his sleep, at
          times softly kissing him with suspended breath, and calling him in a
          whisper by some endearing name. At times she stood aside so as not to
          intercept the low fire-light, and, watching him when it fell upon his
          sleeping face, wondered did he look now at all as he had looked when he
          was prosperous and happy; as he had so touched her by imagining that he
          might look once more in that awful time. At the thought of that time,
          she kneeled beside his bed again, and prayed, 'O spare his life! O
          save him to me! O look down upon my dear, long-suffering, unfortunate,
          much-changed, dear dear father!'

          Not until the morning came to protect him and encourage him, did she
          give him a last kiss and leave the small room. When she had stolen
          down-stairs, and along the empty yard, and had crept up to her own
          high garret, the smokeless housetops and the distant country hills were
          discernible over the wall in the clear morning. As she gently opened the
          window, and looked eastward down the prison yard, the spikes upon the
          wall were tipped with red, then made a sullen purple pattern on the sun
          as it came flaming up into the heavens. The spikes had never looked so
          sharp and cruel, nor the bars so heavy, nor the prison space so gloomy
          and contracted. She thought of the sunrise on rolling rivers, of the
          sunrise on wide seas, of the sunrise on rich landscapes, of the
          sunrise on great forests where the birds were waking and the trees were
          rustling; and she looked down into the living grave on which the sun
          had risen, with her father in it three-and-twenty years, and said, in
          a burst of sorrow and compassion, 'No, no, I have never seen him in my
          life!'

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

completion: Dorrit and his brother Frederick are walking up and down the prison yard. As usual, Dorrit is acting like he owns the place. Also, like he owns his brother. Patronizingly, he starts telling Frederick to clean himself up. On top of that, Dorrit tries to set himself up as some kind of lifestyle example. He's really got some brass ones, doesn't he? Finally, Dorrit walks Frederick to the prison gate and watches him leave, all the while acting concerned about how he's going to get home. Chivery, the turnkey, makes a snide little remark about how much money his son John is spending on the Dorrit family. Dorrit turns around and makes a little speech about how it's worrisome to have his brother out there, but at the same time, a man like Frederick doesn't have what it takes to survive in prison - unlike Dorrit, who happily accepts "donations" without feeling any less a gentleman. With that, he goes back to his room. Amy is there, as always, and she's made him dinner. And now we get a real kicker of a scene. It's pretty crazy, especially considering the general squeamishness of Victorians about sex. Dorrit starts telling his daughter a story about another turnkey, whose brother was into the sister of another long-time prisoner of the Marshalsea... none of whose names he can remember. The upshot is that it was fine for the sister to lead the dude on so the prisoner would get some extra privileges from the turnkey. Hint, hint. OK, in case you're not getting it, Dorrit is basically pimping out his daughter to John Chivery so he'll keep getting cigars and other little perks. Oh yeah - stay classy, Dorrit. Amy is speechless and puts her hand over her father's mouth in shock. He kind of feels bad for a second and then immediately starts feeling way sorry for himself and crying about how terrible life in prison is and how much it's ruined his life, and blah, blah, blah. Not a word of concern or care about his daughter, though. And she plays right into this game, which is totally up her masochistic alley. She's feeling all bad for daddy and not thinking about herself. Somehow she ends up apologizing to Dorrit. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, folks.