prompt:
Chapter: The last day of the appointed week touched the bars of the Marshalsea
gate. Black, all night, since the gate had clashed upon Little Dorrit,
    its iron stripes were turned by the early-glowing sun into stripes of
    gold. Far aslant across the city, over its jumbled roofs, and through
    the open tracery of its church towers, struck the long bright rays, bars
    of the prison of this lower world.

    Throughout the day the old house within the gateway remained untroubled
    by any visitors. But, when the sun was low, three men turned in at the
    gateway and made for the dilapidated house.

    Rigaud was the first, and walked by himself smoking. Mr Baptist was
    the second, and jogged close after him, looking at no other object.
    Mr Pancks was the third, and carried his hat under his arm for the
    liberation of his restive hair; the weather being extremely hot. They
    all came together at the door-steps.

    'You pair of madmen!' said Rigaud, facing about. 'Don't go yet!'

    'We don't mean to,' said Mr Pancks.

    Giving him a dark glance in acknowledgment of his answer, Rigaud knocked
    loudly. He had charged himself with drink, for the playing out of his
    game, and was impatient to begin. He had hardly finished one long
    resounding knock, when he turned to the knocker again and began another.
    That was not yet finished when Jeremiah Flintwinch opened the door, and
    they all clanked into the stone hall. Rigaud, thrusting Mr Flintwinch
    aside, proceeded straight up-stairs. His two attendants followed him, Mr
    Flintwinch followed them, and they all came trooping into Mrs Clennam's
    quiet room. It was in its usual state; except that one of the windows
    was wide open, and Affery sat on its old-fashioned window-seat, mending
    a stocking. The usual articles were on the little table; the usual
    deadened fire was in the grate; the bed had its usual pall upon it; and
    the mistress of all sat on her black bier-like sofa, propped up by her
    black angular bolster that was like the headsman's block.

    Yet there was a nameless air of preparation in the room, as if it were
    strung up for an occasion. From what the room derived it--every one of
    its small variety of objects being in the fixed spot it had occupied
    for years--no one could have said without looking attentively at its
    mistress, and that, too, with a previous knowledge of her face. Although
    her unchanging black dress was in every plait precisely as of old, and
    her unchanging attitude was rigidly preserved, a very slight additional
    setting of her features and contraction of her gloomy forehead was so
    powerfully marked, that it marked everything about her.

    'Who are these?' she said, wonderingly, as the two attendants entered.
    'What do these people want here?'

    'Who are these, dear madame, is it?' returned Rigaud. 'Faith, they are
    friends of your son the prisoner. And what do they want here, is it?
    Death, madame, I don't know. You will do well to ask them.'

    'You know you told us at the door, not to go yet,' said Pancks.

    'And you know you told me at the door, you didn't mean to go,' retorted
    Rigaud. 'In a word, madame, permit me to present two spies of the
    prisoner's--madmen, but spies. If you wish them to remain here during
    our little conversation, say the word. It is nothing to me.'

    'Why should I wish them to remain here?' said Mrs Clennam. 'What have I
    to do with them?'

    'Then, dearest madame,' said Rigaud, throwing himself into an arm-chair
    so heavily that the old room trembled, 'you will do well to dismiss
    them. It is your affair. They are not my spies, not my rascals.'

    'Hark! You Pancks,' said Mrs Clennam, bending her brows upon him
    angrily, 'you Casby's clerk! Attend to your employer's business and your
    own. Go. And take that other man with you.'

    'Thank you, ma'am,' returned Mr Pancks, 'I am glad to say I see no
    objection to our both retiring. We have done all we undertook to do for
    Mr Clennam. His constant anxiety has been (and it grew worse upon him
            when he became a prisoner), that this agreeable gentleman should be
    brought back here to the place from which he slipped away. Here he
    is--brought back. And I will say,' added Mr Pancks, 'to his ill-looking
    face, that in my opinion the world would be no worse for his slipping
    out of it altogether.'

    'Your opinion is not asked,' answered Mrs Clennam. 'Go.'

    'I am sorry not to leave you in better company, ma'am,' said Pancks;
    'and sorry, too, that Mr Clennam can't be present. It's my fault, that
    is.'

    'You mean his own,' she returned.

    'No, I mean mine, ma'am,' said Pancks, 'for it was my misfortune to lead
    him into a ruinous investment.' (Mr Pancks still clung to that word,
            and never said speculation.) 'Though I can prove by figures,' added Mr
    Pancks, with an anxious countenance, 'that it ought to have been a good
    investment. I have gone over it since it failed, every day of my life,
    and it comes out--regarded as a question of figures--triumphant. The
    present is not a time or place,' Mr Pancks pursued, with a longing
    glance into his hat, where he kept his calculations, 'for entering upon
    the figures; but the figures are not to be disputed. Mr Clennam ought to
    have been at this moment in his carriage and pair, and I ought to have
    been worth from three to five thousand pound.'

    Mr Pancks put his hair erect with a general aspect of confidence that
    could hardly have been surpassed, if he had had the amount in his
    pocket. These incontrovertible figures had been the occupation of every
    moment of his leisure since he had lost his money, and were destined to
    afford him consolation to the end of his days.

    'However,' said Mr Pancks, 'enough of that. Altro, old boy, you have
    seen the figures, and you know how they come out.' Mr Baptist, who had
    not the slightest arithmetical power of compensating himself in this
    way, nodded, with a fine display of bright teeth.

    At whom Mr Flintwinch had been looking, and to whom he then said:

    'Oh! it's you, is it? I thought I remembered your face, but I wasn't
    certain till I saw your teeth. Ah! yes, to be sure. It was this
    officious refugee,' said Jeremiah to Mrs Clennam, 'who came knocking
    at the door on the night when Arthur and Chatterbox were here, and who
    asked me a whole Catechism of questions about Mr Blandois.'

    'It is true,' Mr Baptist cheerfully admitted. 'And behold him, padrone!
    I have found him consequentementally.'

    'I shouldn't have objected,' returned Mr Flintwinch, 'to your having
    broken your neck consequentementally.'

    'And now,' said Mr Pancks, whose eye had often stealthily wandered to
    the window-seat and the stocking that was being mended there, 'I've
    only one other word to say before I go. If Mr Clennam was here--but
    unfortunately, though he has so far got the better of this fine
    gentleman as to return him to this place against his will, he is ill
    and in prison--ill and in prison, poor fellow--if he was here,' said Mr
    Pancks, taking one step aside towards the window-seat, and laying
    his right hand upon the stocking; 'he would say, "Affery, tell your
    dreams!"'

    Mr Pancks held up his right forefinger between his nose and the stocking
    with a ghostly air of warning, turned, steamed out and towed Mr Baptist
    after him. The house-door was heard to close upon them, their steps
    were heard passing over the dull pavement of the echoing court-yard, and
    still nobody had added a word. Mrs Clennam and Jeremiah had exchanged a
    look; and had then looked, and looked still, at Affery, who sat mending
    the stocking with great assiduity.

    'Come!' said Mr Flintwinch at length, screwing himself a curve or two in
    the direction of the window-seat, and rubbing the palms of his hands on
    his coat-tail as if he were preparing them to do something: 'Whatever
    has to be said among us had better be begun to be said without more loss
    of time.--So, Affery, my woman, take yourself away!'

    In a moment Affery had thrown the stocking down, started up, caught
    hold of the windowsill with her right hand, lodged herself upon the
    window-seat with her right knee, and was flourishing her left hand,
    beating expected assailants off.

    'No, I won't, Jeremiah--no, I won't--no, I won't! I won't go! I'll stay
    here. I'll hear all I don't know, and say all I know. I will, at last,
    if I die for it. I will, I will, I will, I will!'

    Mr Flintwinch, stiffening with indignation and amazement, moistened the
    fingers of one hand at his lips, softly described a circle with them in
    the palm of the other hand, and continued with a menacing grin to
    screw himself in the direction of his wife; gasping some remark as he
    advanced, of which, in his choking anger, only the words, 'Such a dose!'
    were audible.

    'Not a bit nearer, Jeremiah!' cried Affery, never ceasing to beat the
    air. 'Don't come a bit nearer to me, or I'll rouse the neighbourhood!
    I'll throw myself out of window. I'll scream Fire and Murder! I'll wake
    the dead! Stop where you are, or I'll make shrieks enough to wake the
    dead!'

    The determined voice of Mrs Clennam echoed 'Stop!' Jeremiah had stopped
    already.

    'It is closing in, Flintwinch. Let her alone. Affery, do you turn
    against me after these many years?'

    'I do, if it's turning against you to hear what I don't know, and say
    what I know. I have broke out now, and I can't go back. I am determined
    to do it. I will do it, I will, I will, I will! If that's turning
    against you, yes, I turn against both of you two clever ones. I told
    Arthur when he first come home to stand up against you. I told him it
    was no reason, because I was afeard of my life of you, that he should
    be. All manner of things have been a-going on since then, and I won't
    be run up by Jeremiah, nor yet I won't be dazed and scared, nor made a
    party to I don't know what, no more. I won't, I won't, I won't! I'll
    up for Arthur when he has nothing left, and is ill, and in prison, and
    can't up for himself. I will, I will, I will, I will!'

    'How do you know, you heap of confusion,' asked Mrs Clennam sternly,
    'that in doing what you are doing now, you are even serving Arthur?'

    'I don't know nothing rightly about anything,' said Affery; 'and if
    ever you said a true word in your life, it's when you call me a heap of
    confusion, for you two clever ones have done your most to make me such.
    You married me whether I liked it or not, and you've led me, pretty well
    ever since, such a life of dreaming and frightening as never was known,
    and what do you expect me to be but a heap of confusion? You wanted to
    make me such, and I am such; but I won't submit no longer; no, I won't,
    I won't, I won't, I won't!' She was still beating the air against all
    comers.

    After gazing at her in silence, Mrs Clennam turned to Rigaud. 'You
    see and hear this foolish creature. Do you object to such a piece of
    distraction remaining where she is?'

    'I, madame,' he replied, 'do I? That's a question for you.'

    'I do not,' she said, gloomily. 'There is little left to choose now.
    Flintwinch, it is closing in.'

    Mr Flintwinch replied by directing a look of red vengeance at his wife,
    and then, as if to pinion himself from falling upon her, screwed his
    crossed arms into the breast of his waistcoat, and with his chin very
    near one of his elbows stood in a corner, watching Rigaud in the oddest
    attitude. Rigaud, for his part, arose from his chair, and seated himself
    on the table with his legs dangling. In this easy attitude, he met Mrs
    Clennam's set face, with his moustache going up and his nose coming
    down.

    'Madame, I am a gentleman--'

    'Of whom,' she interrupted in her steady tones, 'I have heard
    disparagement, in connection with a French jail and an accusation of
    murder.'

    He kissed his hand to her with his exaggerated gallantry.

    'Perfectly. Exactly. Of a lady too! What absurdity! How incredible! I
    had the honour of making a great success then; I hope to have the
    honour of making a great success now. I kiss your hands. Madame, I am a
    gentleman (I was going to observe), who when he says, "I will definitely
    finish this or that affair at the present sitting," does definitely
    finish it. I announce to you that we are arrived at our last sitting on
    our little business. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?'

    She kept her eyes fixed upon him with a frown. 'Yes.'

    'Further, I am a gentleman to whom mere mercenary trade-bargains are
    unknown, but to whom money is always acceptable as the means of pursuing
    his pleasures. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?'

    'Scarcely necessary to ask, one would say. Yes.'

    'Further, I am a gentleman of the softest and sweetest disposition,
    but who, if trifled with, becomes enraged. Noble natures under such
    circumstances become enraged. I possess a noble nature. When the lion
    is awakened--that is to say, when I enrage--the satisfaction of my
    animosity is as acceptable to me as money. You always do me the favour
    to follow, and to comprehend?'

    'Yes,' she answered, somewhat louder than before.

    'Do not let me derange you; pray be tranquil. I have said we are now
    arrived at our last sitting. Allow me to recall the two sittings we have
    held.'

    'It is not necessary.'

    'Death, madame,' he burst out, 'it's my fancy! Besides, it clears the
    way. The first sitting was limited. I had the honour of making your
    acquaintance--of presenting my letter; I am a Knight of Industry, at
    your service, madame, but my polished manners had won me so much of
    success, as a master of languages, among your compatriots who are as
    stiff as their own starch is to one another, but are ready to relax to
    a foreign gentleman of polished manners--and of observing one or two
    little things,' he glanced around the room and smiled, 'about this
    honourable house, to know which was necessary to assure me, and
    to convince me that I had the distinguished pleasure of making the
    acquaintance of the lady I sought. I achieved this. I gave my word
    of honour to our dear Flintwinch that I would return. I gracefully
    departed.'

    Her face neither acquiesced nor demurred. The same when he paused, and
    when he spoke, it as yet showed him always the one attentive frown,
    and the dark revelation before mentioned of her being nerved for the
    occasion.

    'I say, gracefully departed, because it was graceful to retire without
    alarming a lady. To be morally graceful, not less than physically, is
    a part of the character of Rigaud Blandois. It was also politic, as
    leaving you with something overhanging you, to expect me again with a
    little anxiety on a day not named. But your slave is politic. By Heaven,
    madame, politic! Let us return. On the day not named, I have again the
    honour to render myself at your house. I intimate that I have something
    to sell, which, if not bought, will compromise madame whom I highly
    esteem. I explain myself generally. I demand--I think it was a thousand
    pounds. Will you correct me?'

    Thus forced to speak, she replied with constraint, 'You demanded as much
    as a thousand pounds.'

    'I demand at present, Two. Such are the evils of delay. But to return
    once more. We are not accordant; we differ on that occasion. I am
    playful; playfulness is a part of my amiable character. Playfully, I
    become as one slain and hidden. For, it may alone be worth half the sum
    to madame, to be freed from the suspicions that my droll idea awakens.
    Accident and spies intermix themselves against my playfulness, and spoil
    the fruit, perhaps--who knows? only you and Flintwinch--when it is just
    ripe. Thus, madame, I am here for the last time. Listen! Definitely the
    last.'

    As he struck his straggling boot-heels against the flap of the table,
    meeting her frown with an insolent gaze, he began to change his tone for
    a fierce one.

    'Bah! Stop an instant! Let us advance by steps. Here is my Hotel-note to
    be paid, according to contract. Five minutes hence we may be at daggers'
    points. I'll not leave it till then, or you'll cheat me. Pay it! Count
    me the money!'

    'Take it from his hand and pay it, Flintwinch,' said Mrs Clennam.

    He spirted it into Mr Flintwinch's face when the old man advanced to
    take it, and held forth his hand, repeating noisily, 'Pay it! Count it
    out! Good money!' Jeremiah picked the bill up, looked at the total with
    a bloodshot eye, took a small canvas bag from his pocket, and told the
    amount into his hand.

    Rigaud chinked the money, weighed it in his hand, threw it up a little
    way and caught it, chinked it again.

    'The sound of it, to the bold Rigaud Blandois, is like the taste of
    fresh meat to the tiger. Say, then, madame. How much?'

    He turned upon her suddenly with a menacing gesture of the weighted hand
    that clenched the money, as if he were going to strike her with it.

    'I tell you again, as I told you before, that we are not rich here, as
    you suppose us to be, and that your demand is excessive. I have not the
    present means of complying with such a demand, if I had ever so great an
    inclination.'

    'If!' cried Rigaud. 'Hear this lady with her If! Will you say that you
    have not the inclination?'

    'I will say what presents itself to me, and not what presents itself to
    you.'

    'Say it then. As to the inclination. Quick! Come to the inclination, and
    I know what to do.'

    She was no quicker, and no slower, in her reply. 'It would seem that
    you have obtained possession of a paper--or of papers--which I assuredly
    have the inclination to recover.'

    Rigaud, with a loud laugh, drummed his heels against the table, and
    chinked his money. 'I think so! I believe you there!'

    'The paper might be worth, to me, a sum of money. I cannot say how much,
    or how little.'

    'What the Devil!' he asked savagely. 'Not after a week's grace to
    consider?'

    'No! I will not out of my scanty means--for I tell you again, we are
    poor here, and not rich--I will not offer any price for a power that I
    do not know the worst and the fullest extent of. This is the third time
    of your hinting and threatening. You must speak explicitly, or you may
    go where you will, and do what you will. It is better to be torn to
    pieces at a spring, than to be a mouse at the caprice of such a cat.'

    He looked at her so hard with those eyes too near together that the
    sinister sight of each, crossing that of the other, seemed to make the
    bridge of his hooked nose crooked. After a long survey, he said, with
    the further setting off of his internal smile:

    'You are a bold woman!'

    'I am a resolved woman.'

    'You always were. What? She always was; is it not so, my little
    Flintwinch?'

    'Flintwinch, say nothing to him. It is for him to say, here and now,
    all he can; or to go hence, and do all he can. You know this to be our
    determination. Leave him to his action on it.'

    She did not shrink under his evil leer, or avoid it. He turned it upon
    her again, but she remained steady at the point to which she had fixed
    herself. He got off the table, placed a chair near the sofa, sat down in
    it, and leaned an arm upon the sofa close to her own, which he touched
    with his hand. Her face was ever frowning, attentive, and settled.

    'It is your pleasure then, madame, that I shall relate a morsel of
    family history in this little family society,' said Rigaud, with a
    warning play of his lithe fingers on her arm. 'I am something of a
    doctor. Let me touch your pulse.'

    She suffered him to take her wrist in his hand. Holding it, he proceeded
    to say:

    'A history of a strange marriage, and a strange mother, and a revenge,
    and a suppression.--Aye, aye, aye? this pulse is beating curiously!
    It appears to me that it doubles while I touch it. Are these the usual
    changes of your malady, madame?'

    There was a struggle in her maimed arm as she twisted it away, but there
    was none in her face. On his face there was his own smile.

    'I have lived an adventurous life. I am an adventurous character. I have
    known many adventurers; interesting spirits--amiable society! To one
    of them I owe my knowledge and my proofs--I repeat it, estimable
    lady--proofs--of the ravishing little family history I go to commence.
    You will be charmed with it. But, bah! I forget. One should name a
    history. Shall I name it the history of a house? But, bah, again. There
    are so many houses. Shall I name it the history of this house?'

    Leaning over the sofa, poised on two legs of his chair and his left
    elbow; that hand often tapping her arm to beat his words home; his
    legs crossed; his right hand sometimes arranging his hair, sometimes
    smoothing his moustache, sometimes striking his nose, always threatening
    her whatever it did; coarse, insolent, rapacious, cruel, and powerful,
    he pursued his narrative at his ease.

    'In fine, then, I name it the history of this house. I commence it.
    There live here, let us suppose, an uncle and nephew. The uncle, a
    rigid old gentleman of strong force of character; the nephew, habitually
    timid, repressed, and under constraint.'

    Mistress Affery, fixedly attentive in the window-seat, biting the
    rolled up end of her apron, and trembling from head to foot, here cried
    out,'Jeremiah, keep off from me! I've heerd, in my dreams, of Arthur's
    father and his uncle. He's a talking of them. It was before my time
    here; but I've heerd in my dreams that Arthur's father was a poor,
    irresolute, frightened chap, who had had everything but his orphan life
    scared out of him when he was young, and that he had no voice in the
    choice of his wife even, but his uncle chose her. There she sits! I
    heerd it in my dreams, and you said it to her own self.'

    As Mr Flintwinch shook his fist at her, and as Mrs Clennam gazed upon
    her, Rigaud kissed his hand to her.

    'Perfectly right, dear Madame Flintwinch. You have a genius for
    dreaming.'

    'I don't want none of your praises,' returned Affery. 'I don't want to
    have nothing at all to say to you. But Jeremiah said they was dreams,
    and I'll tell 'em as such!' Here she put her apron in her mouth again,
    as if she were stopping somebody else's mouth--perhaps Jeremiah's, which
    was chattering with threats as if he were grimly cold.

    'Our beloved Madame Flintwinch,' said Rigaud, 'developing all of a
    sudden a fine susceptibility and spirituality, is right to a marvel.
    Yes. So runs the history. Monsieur, the uncle, commands the nephew to
    marry. Monsieur says to him in effect, "My nephew, I introduce to you a
    lady of strong force of character, like myself--a resolved lady, a stern
    lady, a lady who has a will that can break the weak to powder: a lady
    without pity, without love, implacable, revengeful, cold as the stone,
    but raging as the fire." Ah! what fortitude! Ah, what superiority of
    intellectual strength! Truly, a proud and noble character that I
    describe in the supposed words of Monsieur, the uncle. Ha, ha, ha! Death
    of my soul, I love the sweet lady!'

    Mrs Clennam's face had changed. There was a remarkable darkness of
    colour on it, and the brow was more contracted. 'Madame, madame,' said
    Rigaud, tapping her on the arm, as if his cruel hand were sounding a
    musical instrument, 'I perceive I interest you. I perceive I awaken your
    sympathy. Let us go on.'

    The drooping nose and the ascending moustache had, however, to be hidden
    for a moment with the white hand, before he could go on; he enjoyed the
    effect he made so much.

    'The nephew, being, as the lucid Madame Flintwinch has remarked, a poor
    devil who has had everything but his orphan life frightened and famished
    out of him--the nephew abases his head, and makes response: "My uncle,
    it is to you to command. Do as you will!" Monsieur, the uncle, does as
    he will. It is what he always does. The auspicious nuptials take place;
    the newly married come home to this charming mansion; the lady is
    received, let us suppose, by Flintwinch. Hey, old intriguer?'

    Jeremiah, with his eyes upon his mistress, made no reply. Rigaud looked
    from one to the other, struck his ugly nose, and made a clucking with
    his tongue.

    'Soon the lady makes a singular and exciting discovery. Thereupon,
    full of anger, full of jealousy, full of vengeance, she forms--see you,
    madame!--a scheme of retribution, the weight of which she ingeniously
    forces her crushed husband to bear himself, as well as execute upon her
    enemy. What superior intelligence!'

    'Keep off, Jeremiah!' cried the palpitating Affery, taking her apron
    from her mouth again. 'But it was one of my dreams, that you told her,
    when you quarrelled with her one winter evening at dusk--there she sits
    and you looking at her--that she oughtn't to have let Arthur when he
    come home, suspect his father only; that she had always had the strength
    and the power; and that she ought to have stood up more to Arthur, for
    his father. It was in the same dream where you said to her that she was
    not--not something, but I don't know what, for she burst out tremendous
    and stopped you. You know the dream as well as I do. When you come
    down-stairs into the kitchen with the candle in your hand, and hitched
    my apron off my head. When you told me I had been dreaming. When you
    wouldn't believe the noises.' After this explosion Affery put her apron
    into her mouth again; always keeping her hand on the window-sill and her
    knee on the window-seat, ready to cry out or jump out if her lord and
    master approached.

    Rigaud had not lost a word of this.

    'Haha!' he cried, lifting his eyebrows, folding his arms, and leaning
    back in his chair. 'Assuredly, Madame Flintwinch is an oracle! How shall
    we interpret the oracle, you and I and the old intriguer? He said that
    you were not--? And you burst out and stopped him! What was it you were
    not? What is it you are not? Say then, madame!'

    Under this ferocious banter, she sat breathing harder, and her mouth was
    disturbed. Her lips quivered and opened, in spite of her utmost efforts
    to keep them still.

    'Come then, madame! Speak, then! Our old intriguer said that you were
    not--and you stopped him. He was going to say that you were not--what?
    I know already, but I want a little confidence from you. How, then? You
    are not what?'

    She tried again to repress herself, but broke out vehemently, 'Not
    Arthur's mother!'

    'Good,' said Rigaud. 'You are amenable.'

    With the set expression of her face all torn away by the explosion
    of her passion, and with a bursting, from every rent feature, of the
    smouldering fire so long pent up, she cried out: 'I will tell it myself!
    I will not hear it from your lips, and with the taint of your wickedness
    upon it. Since it must be seen, I will have it seen by the light I stood
    in. Not another word. Hear me!'

    'Unless you are a more obstinate and more persisting woman than even
    I know you to be,' Mr Flintwinch interposed, 'you had better leave Mr
    Rigaud, Mr Blandois, Mr Beelzebub, to tell it in his own way. What does
    it signify when he knows all about it?'

    'He does not know all about it.'

    'He knows all he cares about it,' Mr Flintwinch testily urged.

    'He does not know _me_.'

    'What do you suppose he cares for you, you conceited woman?' said Mr
    Flintwinch.

    'I tell you, Flintwinch, I will speak. I tell you when it has come
    to this, I will tell it with my own lips, and will express myself
    throughout it. What! Have I suffered nothing in this room, no
    deprivation, no imprisonment, that I should condescend at last to
    contemplate myself in such a glass as _that_. Can you see him? Can you
    hear him? If your wife were a hundred times the ingrate that she is, and
    if I were a thousand times more hopeless than I am of inducing her to be
    silent if this man is silenced, I would tell it myself, before I would
    bear the torment of the hearing it from him.'

    Rigaud pushed his chair a little back; pushed his legs out straight
    before him; and sat with his arms folded over against her.

    'You do not know what it is,' she went on addressing him, 'to be brought
    up strictly and straitly. I was so brought up. Mine was no light youth
    of sinful gaiety and pleasure. Mine were days of wholesome repression,
    punishment, and fear. The corruption of our hearts, the evil of our
    ways, the curse that is upon us, the terrors that surround us--these
    were the themes of my childhood. They formed my character, and filled me
    with an abhorrence of evil-doers. When old Mr Gilbert Clennam proposed
    his orphan nephew to my father for my husband, my father impressed upon
    me that his bringing-up had been, like mine, one of severe restraint.
    He told me, that besides the discipline his spirit had undergone, he
    had lived in a starved house, where rioting and gaiety were unknown, and
    where every day was a day of toil and trial like the last. He told me
    that he had been a man in years long before his uncle had acknowledged
    him as one; and that from his school-days to that hour, his uncle's roof
    has been a sanctuary to him from the contagion of the irreligious
    and dissolute. When, within a twelvemonth of our marriage, I found
    my husband, at that time when my father spoke of him, to have sinned
    against the Lord and outraged me by holding a guilty creature in my
    place, was I to doubt that it had been appointed to me to make the
    discovery, and that it was appointed to me to lay the hand of punishment
    upon that creature of perdition? Was I to dismiss in a moment--not my
    own wrongs--what was I! but all the rejection of sin, and all the war
    against it, in which I had been bred?'

    She laid her wrathful hand upon the watch on the table.

    'No! "Do not forget." The initials of those words are within here now,
    and were within here then. I was appointed to find the old letter that
    referred to them, and that told me what they meant, and whose work they
    were, and why they were worked, lying with this watch in his secret
    drawer. But for that appointment there would have been no discovery.
    "Do not forget." It spoke to me like a voice from an angry cloud. Do
    not forget the deadly sin, do not forget the appointed discovery, do not
    forget the appointed suffering. I did not forget. Was it my own wrong I
    remembered? Mine! I was but a servant and a minister. What power could I
    have over them, but that they were bound in the bonds of their sin, and
    delivered to me!'

    More than forty years had passed over the grey head of this determined
    woman, since the time she recalled. More than forty years of strife
    and struggle with the whisper that, by whatever name she called her
    vindictive pride and rage, nothing through all eternity could change
    their nature. Yet, gone those more than forty years, and come this
    Nemesis now looking her in the face, she still abided by her old
    impiety--still reversed the order of Creation, and breathed her own
    breath into a clay image of her Creator. Verily, verily, travellers have
    seen many monstrous idols in many countries; but no human eyes have ever
    seen more daring, gross, and shocking images of the Divine nature than
    we creatures of the dust make in our own likenesses, of our own bad
    passions.

    'When I forced him to give her up to me, by her name and place of
    abode,' she went on in her torrent of indignation and defence; 'when I
    accused her, and she fell hiding her face at my feet, was it my injury
    that I asserted, were they my reproaches that I poured upon her? Those
    who were appointed of old to go to wicked kings and accuse them--were
    they not ministers and servants? And had not I, unworthy and far-removed
    from them, sin to denounce? When she pleaded to me her youth, and his
    wretched and hard life (that was her phrase for the virtuous training he
            had belied), and the desecrated ceremony of marriage there had
    secretly been between them, and the terrors of want and shame that had
    overwhelmed them both when I was first appointed to be the instrument of
    their punishment, and the love (for she said the word to me, down at my
            feet) in which she had abandoned him and left him to me, was it _my_
    enemy that became my footstool, were they the words of my wrath that
    made her shrink and quiver! Not unto me the strength be ascribed; not
    unto me the wringing of the expiation!'

    Many years had come and gone since she had had the free use even of
    her fingers; but it was noticeable that she had already more than once
    struck her clenched hand vigorously upon the table, and that when she
    said these words she raised her whole arm in the air, as though it had
    been a common action with her.

    'And what was the repentance that was extorted from the hardness of her
    heart and the blackness of her depravity? I, vindictive and implacable?
    It may be so, to such as you who know no righteousness, and no
    appointment except Satan's. Laugh; but I will be known as I know
    myself, and as Flintwinch knows me, though it is only to you and this
    half-witted woman.'

    'Add, to yourself, madame,' said Rigaud. 'I have my little suspicions
    that madame is rather solicitous to be justified to herself.'

    'It is false. It is not so. I have no need to be,' she said, with great
    energy and anger.

    'Truly?' retorted Rigaud. 'Hah!'

    'I ask, what was the penitence, in works, that was demanded of her?
    "You have a child; I have none. You love that child. Give him to me. He
    shall believe himself to be my son, and he shall be believed by every
    one to be my son. To save you from exposure, his father shall swear
    never to see or communicate with you more; equally to save him from
    being stripped by his uncle, and to save your child from being a beggar,
    you shall swear never to see or communicate with either of them more.
    That done, and your present means, derived from my husband, renounced,
    I charge myself with your support. You may, with your place of retreat
    unknown, then leave, if you please, uncontradicted by me, the lie that
    when you passed out of all knowledge but mine, you merited a good name."
    That was all. She had to sacrifice her sinful and shameful affections;
    no more. She was then free to bear her load of guilt in secret, and to
    break her heart in secret; and through such present misery (light enough
            for her, I think!) to purchase her redemption from endless misery, if
    she could. If, in this, I punished her here, did I not open to her a way
    hereafter? If she knew herself to be surrounded by insatiable vengeance
    and unquenchable fires, were they mine? If I threatened her, then and
    afterwards, with the terrors that encompassed her, did I hold them in my
    right hand?'

    She turned the watch upon the table, and opened it, and, with an
    unsoftening face, looked at the worked letters within.

    'They did _not_ forget. It is appointed against such offences that the
    offenders shall not be able to forget. If the presence of Arthur was a
    daily reproach to his father, and if the absence of Arthur was a daily
    agony to his mother, that was the just dispensation of Jehovah. As well
    might it be charged upon me, that the stings of an awakened conscience
    drove her mad, and that it was the will of the Disposer of all things
    that she should live so, many years. I devoted myself to reclaim the
    otherwise predestined and lost boy; to give him the reputation of an
    honest origin; to bring him up in fear and trembling, and in a life of
    practical contrition for the sins that were heavy on his head before his
    entrance into this condemned world. Was that a cruelty? Was I, too,
    not visited with consequences of the original offence in which I had no
    complicity? Arthur's father and I lived no further apart, with half the
    globe between us, than when we were together in this house. He died,
    and sent this watch back to me, with its Do not forget. I do NOT forget,
    though I do not read it as he did. I read in it, that I was appointed
    to do these things. I have so read these three letters since I have
    had them lying on this table, and I did so read them, with equal
    distinctness, when they were thousands of miles away.'

    As she took the watch-case in her hand, with that new freedom in the use
    of her hand of which she showed no consciousness whatever, bending her
    eyes upon it as if she were defying it to move her, Rigaud cried with a
    loud and contemptuous snapping of his fingers. 'Come, madame! Time runs
    out. Come, lady of piety, it must be! You can tell nothing I don't know.
    Come to the money stolen, or I will! Death of my soul, I have had enough
    of your other jargon. Come straight to the stolen money!'

    'Wretch that you are,' she answered, and now her hands clasped her head:
    'through what fatal error of Flintwinch's, through what incompleteness
    on his part, who was the only other person helping in these things and
    trusted with them, through whose and what bringing together of the ashes
    of a burnt paper, you have become possessed of that codicil, I know no
    more than how you acquired the rest of your power here--'

    'And yet,' interrupted Rigaud, 'it is my odd fortune to have by me, in a
    convenient place that I know of, that same short little addition to the
    will of Monsieur Gilbert Clennam, written by a lady and witnessed by the
    same lady and our old intriguer! Ah, bah, old intriguer, crooked little
    puppet! Madame, let us go on. Time presses. You or I to finish?'

    'I!' she answered, with increased determination, if it were possible.
    'I, because I will not endure to be shown myself, and have myself
    shown to any one, with your horrible distortion upon me. You, with your
    practices of infamous foreign prisons and galleys would make it the
    money that impelled me. It was not the money.'

    'Bah, bah, bah! I repudiate, for the moment, my politeness, and say,
    Lies, lies, lies. You know you suppressed the deed and kept the money.'

    'Not for the money's sake, wretch!' She made a struggle as if she were
    starting up; even as if, in her vehemence, she had almost risen on her
    disabled feet. 'If Gilbert Clennam, reduced to imbecility, at the point
    of death, and labouring under the delusion of some imaginary relenting
    towards a girl of whom he had heard that his nephew had once had a fancy
    for her which he had crushed out of him, and that she afterwards drooped
    away into melancholy and withdrawal from all who knew her--if, in that
    state of weakness, he dictated to me, whose life she had darkened with
    her sin, and who had been appointed to know her wickedness from her
    own hand and her own lips, a bequest meant as a recompense to her
    for supposed unmerited suffering; was there no difference between my
    spurning that injustice, and coveting mere money--a thing which you, and
    your comrades in the prisons, may steal from anyone?'

    'Time presses, madame. Take care!'

    'If this house was blazing from the roof to the ground,' she returned,
    'I would stay in it to justify myself against my righteous motives being
    classed with those of stabbers and thieves.'

    Rigaud snapped his fingers tauntingly in her face. 'One thousand guineas
    to the little beauty you slowly hunted to death. One thousand guineas
    to the youngest daughter her patron might have at fifty, or (if he
            had none) brother's youngest daughter, on her coming of age, "as the
    remembrance his disinterestedness may like best, of his protection of
    a friendless young orphan girl." Two thousand guineas. What! You will
    never come to the money?'

    'That patron,' she was vehemently proceeding, when he checked her.

    'Names! Call him Mr Frederick Dorrit. No more evasions.'

    'That Frederick Dorrit was the beginning of it all. If he had not been
    a player of music, and had not kept, in those days of his youth and
    prosperity, an idle house where singers, and players, and such-like
    children of Evil turned their backs on the Light and their faces to the
    Darkness, she might have remained in her lowly station, and might not
    have been raised out of it to be cast down. But, no. Satan entered into
    that Frederick Dorrit, and counselled him that he was a man of innocent
    and laudable tastes who did kind actions, and that here was a poor girl
    with a voice for singing music with. Then he is to have her taught. Then
    Arthur's father, who has all along been secretly pining in the ways of
    virtuous ruggedness for those accursed snares which are called the Arts,
    becomes acquainted with her. And so, a graceless orphan, training to be
    a singing girl, carries it, by that Frederick Dorrit's agency, against
    me, and I am humbled and deceived!--Not I, that is to say,' she added
    quickly, as colour flushed into her face; 'a greater than I. What am I?'

    Jeremiah Flintwinch, who had been gradually screwing himself towards
    her, and who was now very near her elbow without her knowing it, made a
    specially wry face of objection when she said these words, and moreover
    twitched his gaiters, as if such pretensions were equivalent to little
    barbs in his legs.

    'Lastly,' she continued, 'for I am at the end of these things, and I
    will say no more of them, and you shall say no more of them, and all
    that remains will be to determine whether the knowledge of them can
    be kept among us who are here present; lastly, when I suppressed that
    paper, with the knowledge of Arthur's father--'

    'But not with his consent, you know,' said Mr Flintwinch.

    'Who said with his consent?' She started to find Jeremiah so near her,
    and drew back her head, looking at him with some rising distrust. 'You
    were often enough between us when he would have had me produce it and
    I would not, to have contradicted me if I had said, with his consent. I
    say, when I suppressed that paper, I made no effort to destroy it, but
    kept it by me, here in this house, many years. The rest of the Gilbert
    property being left to Arthur's father, I could at any time, without
    unsettling more than the two sums, have made a pretence of finding
    it. But, besides that I must have supported such pretence by a direct
    falsehood (a great responsibility), I have seen no new reason, in
    all the time I have been tried here, to bring it to light. It was a
    rewarding of sin; the wrong result of a delusion. I did what I was
    appointed to do, and I have undergone, within these four walls, what
    I was appointed to undergo. When the paper was at last destroyed--as
    I thought--in my presence, she had long been dead, and her patron,
    Frederick Dorrit, had long been deservedly ruined and imbecile. He had
    no daughter. I had found the niece before then; and what I did for her,
    was better for her far than the money of which she would have had no
    good.' She added, after a moment, as though she addressed the watch:
    'She herself was innocent, and I might not have forgotten to relinquish
    it to her at my death:' and sat looking at it.

    'Shall I recall something to you, worthy madame?' said Rigaud. 'The
    little paper was in this house on the night when our friend the
    prisoner--jail-comrade of my soul--came home from foreign countries.
    Shall I recall yet something more to you? The little singing-bird
    that never was fledged, was long kept in a cage by a guardian of your
    appointing, well enough known to our old intriguer here. Shall we coax
    our old intriguer to tell us when he saw him last?'

    'I'll tell you!' cried Affery, unstopping her mouth. 'I dreamed it,
    first of all my dreams. Jeremiah, if you come a-nigh me now, I'll scream
    to be heard at St Paul's! The person as this man has spoken of, was
    Jeremiah's own twin brother; and he was here in the dead of the night,
    on the night when Arthur come home, and Jeremiah with his own hands give
    him this paper, along with I don't know what more, and he took it away
    in an iron box--Help! Murder! Save me from Jere-_mi_-ah!'

    Mr Flintwinch had made a run at her, but Rigaud had caught him in his
    arms midway. After a moment's wrestle with him, Flintwinch gave up, and
    put his hands in his pockets.

    'What!' cried Rigaud, rallying him as he poked and jerked him back with
    his elbows, 'assault a lady with such a genius for dreaming! Ha, ha, ha!
    Why, she'll be a fortune to you as an exhibition. All that she dreams
    comes true. Ha, ha, ha! You're so like him, Little Flintwinch. So like
    him, as I knew him (when I first spoke English for him to the host) in
    the Cabaret of the Three Billiard Tables, in the little street of the
    high roofs, by the wharf at Antwerp! Ah, but he was a brave boy to
    drink. Ah, but he was a brave boy to smoke! Ah, but he lived in a sweet
    bachelor-apartment--furnished, on the fifth floor, above the wood and
    charcoal merchant's, and the dress-maker's, and the chair-maker's, and
    the maker of tubs--where I knew him too, and wherewith his cognac and
    tobacco, he had twelve sleeps a day and one fit, until he had a fit too
    much, and ascended to the skies. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter how I
    took possession of the papers in his iron box? Perhaps he confided it
    to my hands for you, perhaps it was locked and my curiosity was piqued,
    perhaps I suppressed it. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter, so that I
    have it safe? We are not particular here; hey, Flintwinch? We are not
    particular here; is it not so, madame?'

    Retiring before him with vicious counter-jerks of his own elbows, Mr
    Flintwinch had got back into his corner, where he now stood with his
    hands in his pockets, taking breath, and returning Mrs Clennam's stare.
    'Ha, ha, ha! But what's this?' cried Rigaud. 'It appears as if you
    don't know, one the other. Permit me, Madame Clennam who suppresses, to
    present Monsieur Flintwinch who intrigues.'

    Mr Flintwinch, unpocketing one of his hands to scrape his jaw, advanced
    a step or so in that attitude, still returning Mrs Clennam's look, and
    thus addressed her:

    'Now, I know what you mean by opening your eyes so wide at me, but you
    needn't take the trouble, because I don't care for it. I've been telling
    you for how many years that you're one of the most opinionated and
    obstinate of women. That's what _you_ are. You call yourself humble and
    sinful, but you are the most Bumptious of your sex. That's what _you_ are.
    I have told you, over and over again when we have had a tiff, that you
    wanted to make everything go down before you, but I wouldn't go down
    before you--that you wanted to swallow up everybody alive, but I
    wouldn't be swallowed up alive. Why didn't you destroy the paper when
    you first laid hands upon it? I advised you to; but no, it's not your
    way to take advice. You must keep it forsooth. Perhaps you may carry it
    out at some other time, forsooth. As if I didn't know better than that!
    I think I see your pride carrying it out, with a chance of being
    suspected of having kept it by you. But that's the way you cheat
    yourself. Just as you cheat yourself into making out that you didn't do
    all this business because you were a rigorous woman, all slight, and
    spite, and power, and unforgiveness, but because you were a servant and
    a minister, and were appointed to do it. Who are you, that you should
    be appointed to do it? That may be your religion, but it's my gammon.
    And to tell you all the truth while I am about it,' said Mr Flintwinch,
    crossing his arms, and becoming the express image of irascible
    doggedness, 'I have been rasped--rasped these forty years--by your
    taking such high ground even with me, who knows better; the effect of it
    being coolly to put me on low ground. I admire you very much; you are a
    woman of strong head and great talent; but the strongest head, and the
    greatest talent, can't rasp a man for forty years without making him
    sore. So I don't care for your present eyes. Now, I am coming to the
    paper, and mark what I say. You put it away somewhere, and you kept your
    own counsel where. You're an active woman at that time, and if you want
    to get that paper, you can get it. But, mark. There comes a time when
    you are struck into what you are now, and then if you want to get that
    paper, you can't get it. So it lies, long years, in its hiding-place. At
    last, when we are expecting Arthur home every day, and when any day may
    bring him home, and it's impossible to say what rummaging he may make
    about the house, I recommend you five thousand times, if you can't get
    at it, to let me get at it, that it may be put in the fire. But no--no
    one but you knows where it is, and that's power; and, call yourself
    whatever humble names you will, I call you a female Lucifer in appetite
    for power! On a Sunday night, Arthur comes home. He has not been in this
    room ten minutes, when he speaks of his father's watch. You know very
    well that the Do Not Forget, at the time when his father sent that watch
    to you, could only mean, the rest of the story being then all dead and
    over, Do Not Forget the suppression. Make restitution! Arthur's ways
    have frightened you a bit, and the paper shall be burnt after all. So,
    before that jumping jade and Jezebel,' Mr Flintwinch grinned at his
    wife, 'has got you into bed, you at last tell me where you have put the
    paper, among the old ledgers in the cellars, where Arthur himself went
    prowling the very next morning. But it's not to be burnt on a Sunday
    night. No; you are strict, you are; we must wait over twelve o'clock,
    and get into Monday. Now, all this is a swallowing of me up alive that
    rasps me; so, feeling a little out of temper, and not being as strict as
    yourself, I take a look at the document before twelve o'clock to refresh
    my memory as to its appearance--fold up one of the many yellow old
    papers in the cellars like it--and afterwards, when we have got into
    Monday morning, and I have, by the light of your lamp, to walk from you,
    lying on that bed, to this grate, make a little exchange like the
    conjuror, and burn accordingly. My brother Ephraim, the lunatic-keeper
    (I wish he had had himself to keep in a strait-waistcoat), had had many
    jobs since the close of the long job he got from you, but had not done
    well. His wife died (not that that was much; mine might have died
            instead, and welcome), he speculated unsuccessfully in lunatics, he got
    into difficulty about over-roasting a patient to bring him to reason,
    and he got into debt. He was going out of the way, on what he had been
    able to scrape up, and a trifle from me. He was here that early Monday
    morning, waiting for the tide; in short, he was going to Antwerp, where
    (I am afraid you'll be shocked at my saying, And be damned to him!) he
    made the acquaintance of this gentleman. He had come a long way, and, I
    thought then, was only sleepy; but, I suppose now, was drunk. When
    Arthur's mother had been under the care of him and his wife, she had
    been always writing, incessantly writing,--mostly letters of confession
    to you, and Prayers for forgiveness. My brother had handed, from time to
    time, lots of these sheets to me. I thought I might as well keep them to
    myself as have them swallowed up alive too; so I kept them in a box,
    looking over them when I felt in the humour. Convinced that it was
    advisable to get the paper out of the place, with Arthur coming about
    it, I put it into this same box, and I locked the whole up with two
    locks, and I trusted it to my brother to take away and keep, till I
    should write about it. I did write about it, and never got an answer. I
    didn't know what to make of it, till this gentleman favoured us with his
    first visit. Of course, I began to suspect how it was, then; and I don't
    want his word for it now to understand how he gets his knowledge from my
    papers, and your paper, and my brother's cognac and tobacco talk (I wish
            he'd had to gag himself). Now, I have only one thing more to say, you
    hammer-headed woman, and that is, that I haven't altogether made up my
    mind whether I might, or might not, have ever given you any trouble
    about the codicil. I think not; and that I should have been quite
    satisfied with knowing I had got the better of you, and that I held the
    power over you. In the present state of circumstances, I have no more
    explanation to give you till this time to-morrow night. So you may as
    well,' said Mr Flintwinch, terminating his oration with a screw, 'keep
    your eyes open at somebody else, for it's no use keeping 'em open at
    me.'

    She slowly withdrew them when he had ceased, and dropped her forehead
    on her hand. Her other hand pressed hard upon the table, and again the
    curious stir was observable in her, as if she were going to rise.

    'This box can never bring, elsewhere, the price it will bring here.
    This knowledge can never be of the same profit to you, sold to any other
    person, as sold to me. But I have not the present means of raising the
    sum you have demanded. I have not prospered. What will you take now, and
    what at another time, and how am I to be assured of your silence?'

    'My angel,' said Rigaud, 'I have said what I will take, and time
    presses. Before coming here, I placed copies of the most important of
    these papers in another hand. Put off the time till the Marshalsea
    gate shall be shut for the night, and it will be too late to treat. The
    prisoner will have read them.'

    She put her two hands to her head again, uttered a loud exclamation, and
    started to her feet. She staggered for a moment, as if she would have
    fallen; then stood firm.

    'Say what you mean. Say what you mean, man!'

    Before her ghostly figure, so long unused to its erect attitude, and so
    stiffened in it, Rigaud fell back and dropped his voice. It was, to all
    the three, almost as if a dead woman had risen.

    'Miss Dorrit,' answered Rigaud, 'the little niece of Monsieur Frederick,
    whom I have known across the water, is attached to the prisoner. Miss
    Dorrit, little niece of Monsieur Frederick, watches at this moment over
    the prisoner, who is ill. For her I with my own hands left a packet
    at the prison, on my way here, with a letter of instructions, "_for his
    sake_"--she will do anything for his sake--to keep it without breaking
    the seal, in case of its being reclaimed before the hour of shutting up
    to-night--if it should not be reclaimed before the ringing of the prison
    bell, to give it to him; and it encloses a second copy for herself,
    which he must give to her. What! I don't trust myself among you, now we
    have got so far, without giving my secret a second life. And as to its
    not bringing me, elsewhere, the price it will bring here, say then,
    madame, have you limited and settled the price the little niece will
    give--for his sake--to hush it up? Once more I say, time presses. The
    packet not reclaimed before the ringing of the bell to-night, you cannot
    buy. I sell, then, to the little girl!'

    Once more the stir and struggle in her, and she ran to a closet, tore
    the door open, took down a hood or shawl, and wrapped it over her head.
    Affery, who had watched her in terror, darted to her in the middle of
    the room, caught hold of her dress, and went on her knees to her.

    'Don't, don't, don't! What are you doing? Where are you going? You're a
    fearful woman, but I don't bear you no ill-will. I can do poor Arthur
    no good now, that I see; and you needn't be afraid of me. I'll keep your
    secret. Don't go out, you'll fall dead in the street. Only promise me,
    that, if it's the poor thing that's kept here secretly, you'll let me
    take charge of her and be her nurse. Only promise me that, and never be
    afraid of me.'

    Mrs Clennam stood still for an instant, at the height of her rapid
    haste, saying in stern amazement:

    'Kept here? She has been dead a score of years or more. Ask
    Flintwinch--ask _him_. They can both tell you that she died when Arthur
    went abroad.'

    'So much the worse,' said Affery, with a shiver, 'for she haunts the
    house, then. Who else rustles about it, making signals by dropping
    dust so softly? Who else comes and goes, and marks the walls with
    long crooked touches when we are all a-bed? Who else holds the door
    sometimes? But don't go out--don't go out! Mistress, you'll die in the
    street!'

    Her mistress only disengaged her dress from the beseeching hands, said
    to Rigaud, 'Wait here till I come back!' and ran out of the room. They
    saw her, from the window, run wildly through the court-yard and out at
    the gateway.

    For a few moments they stood motionless. Affery was the first to move,
    and she, wringing her hands, pursued her mistress. Next, Jeremiah
    Flintwinch, slowly backing to the door, with one hand in a pocket, and
    the other rubbing his chin, twisted himself out in his reticent way,
    speechlessly. Rigaud, left alone, composed himself upon the window-seat
    of the open window, in the old Marseilles-jail attitude. He laid his
    cigarettes and fire-box ready to his hand, and fell to smoking.

    'Whoof! Almost as dull as the infernal old jail. Warmer, but almost as
    dismal. Wait till she comes back? Yes, certainly; but where is she gone,
    and how long will she be gone? No matter! Rigaud Lagnier Blandois, my
    amiable subject, you will get your money. You will enrich yourself. You
    have lived a gentleman; you will die a gentleman. You triumph, my little
    boy; but it is your character to triumph. Whoof!'

    In the hour of his triumph, his moustache went up and his nose came
    down, as he ogled a great beam over his head with particular
    satisfaction.

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

completion: OK, here we go with the meat of the mystery plot. What mystery plot? Yeah, we know, we know, it's kind of gotten lost in the rest of the novel. But yes, the mystery of Mrs. Clennam and Amy that Arthur was trying to figure out in the beginning of the novel - it's back! And it's about to be really confusingly explained! So, a week later, Pancks and Cavalletto bring Blandois to Mrs. Clennam's house. Mrs. Clennam immediately dismisses them, since she needs to have a private convo with Blandois. Pancks tells her that he's the one who got Arthur sucked into the whole investment thing. To which she is all, meh. Then Flintwinch recognizes Cavalletto as the guy who's been going around asking questions about Blandois, which Cavalletto acknowledges. Before they go, Pancks walks over to Affery and says that if Arthur were here, he'd say "Affery, tell your dreams!" Flintwinch goes to beat up Affery as usual, but this time she fights him off and threatens to call the police and wake up the neighborhood if they don't let her stay. They let her stay. Blandois starts his thing. The first time they met, he was nice. The second time, he was not as nice and demanded a thousand guineas; now he's asking for two thousand. OK, guys, Victorian British money was ridiculously complicated. Like, beyond unreasonable. But we'll try to work it out a little bit. A person could live pretty well on 200-300 pounds a year. That would make you solidly upper-middle class if you were single. There are twenty shillings in a pound. There are twenty-one shillings in a guinea so a thousand guineas is just over a thousand pounds. Blandois could live for almost ten years off of two thousand pounds. Um, OK, where were we? Oh yes, blackmail. So, Mrs. Clennam says, what exactly is Blandois threatening to expose? She doesn't have the kind of money he's asking for, but even if she did, she needs to know what he's got in the first place. So Blandois launches into the story. Arthur was a sad, weak, beaten-down boy, who was raised in a crazed, super-strict religious house. His uncle, Gilbert Clennam, was forceful and strong. Gilbert demanded that Arthur's father marry a specific woman - the future Mrs. Clennam. At this point Affery pipes up to say she's heard all about Arthur's father and his crazy uncle. Blandois continues that soon Mrs. Clennam finds out something shocking. Affery confirms, and remembers a fight where Flintwinch said that Mrs. Clennam wasn't even... before being shut up. Blandois makes Mrs. Clennam complete the sentence. It turns out that Mrs. Clennam isn't even... Arthur's mother! OK, this novel just completed step one of turning into a soap opera. Mrs. Clennam flips out at this point. She tells them about her own horrible and repressive childhood, and says that she thought Arthur's dad grew up the same way. So when she found out that he'd married another woman before her and they'd had a child together, she totally lost it. Mrs. Clennam has lived her life thinking that she was meant to discover the affair and that she was supposed to exact punishment for her husband's sin. As in, she was appointed by God to do this. Oh, did we mention that she is totally crazy? The punishment she made up was this: Arthur's mom gave up the baby and never saw him again. Arthur's dad went away to China and never saw Arthur's mom again. And Mrs. Clennam raised Arthur as her own and became a prisoner of her own house. As she is telling the story, Mrs. Clennam is moving her arms for the first time in many years. So yeah. All's well that ends incredibly terribly, right? Not quite. Blandois says, OK, but what about the stolen money? Mrs. Clennam continues. It turns out that Uncle Gilbert felt bad about the whole thing in his old age and wrote a codicil to his will , leaving a thousand guineas to Arthur's mom's patron. That patron? Frederick Dorrit, who apparently was nice to her at some point. Mrs. Clennam shrieks that this would have rewarded sin. Um, how, exactly? It's not like old Fred slept with Arthur's dad. Through some convoluted nonsense, the money was supposed to go to Little Dorrit. Instead, Mrs. Clennam kept the codicil hidden in the house, and eventually destroyed it . She also says that upon her death, she would have left the thousand to Little Dorrit. Blandois then explains how he came to know all this stuff. Affery bursts in to say that she saw Flintwinch and his twin brother at the house one night exchanging documents. Blandois laughs and says he knew the twin Flintwinch at the end of his life in Amsterdam. When he died from his alcoholism, Blandois took the papers. Flintwinch then tells his part of the story, and why he betrayed Mrs. Clennam. He'd been working for her for a long time, but the longer they were together, the more she wanted everything to always go her way. Eventually Flintwinch became resentful. Flintwinch was no big fan of Arthur's father, but he was angry that Mrs. Clennam made Arthur think his dad had committed some kind of wrong or robbery. Also, Flintwinch wanted Mrs. Clennam to destroy this codicil all along. But when Mrs. Clennam finally decided to do just that, Flintwinch switched papers and gave the real codicil to his twin brother to take away to Amsterdam. He was worried that Arthur would find out something and wanted to have the documents safe and out of the way. So that's the story. Yeah, we know: huh? In any case, Mrs. Clennam asks again for more time. Blandois says, nope. He also says that he gave Little Dorrit and Arthur copies of the documents to be opened that night if he doesn't come back to retrieve them. So they'll know the whole horrible story if he doesn't get his money. Mrs. Clennam freaks out and jumps up out of her chair . Affery asks if all this time Arthur's mom has been kept in the house. Mrs. Clennam is like, what? No! She's been dead a long time. Affery says, oh, then it must be her ghost that's haunting the house and making all that crazy noise. Mrs. Clennam then runs out of the room and out of the house . Affery runs after her. Flintwinch goes after them. Blandois stays in the house, smoking, and looking at a giant beam over his head in the ceiling.


prompt:
Chapter: The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusty twilight, when
the figure so long unused to them hurried on its way. In the immediate
neighbourhood of the old house it attracted little attention, for there
were only a few straggling people to notice it; but, ascending from the
river by the crooked ways that led to London Bridge, and passing into
the great main road, it became surrounded by astonishment.

Resolute and wild of look, rapid of foot and yet weak and uncertain,
         conspicuously dressed in its black garments and with its hurried
         head-covering, gaunt and of an unearthly paleness, it pressed forward,
         taking no more heed of the throng than a sleep-walker. More remarkable
         by being so removed from the crowd it was among than if it had been
         lifted on a pedestal to be seen, the figure attracted all eyes.
         Saunterers pricked up their attention to observe it; busy people,
         crossing it, slackened their pace and turned their heads; companions
         pausing and standing aside, whispered one another to look at this
         spectral woman who was coming by; and the sweep of the figure as it
         passed seemed to create a vortex, drawing the most idle and most curious
         after it.

         Made giddy by the turbulent irruption of this multitude of staring faces
         into her cell of years, by the confusing sensation of being in the air,
         and the yet more confusing sensation of being afoot, by the unexpected
         changes in half-remembered objects, and the want of likeness between the
         controllable pictures her imagination had often drawn of the life from
         which she was secluded and the overwhelming rush of the reality, she
         held her way as if she were environed by distracting thoughts, rather
         than by external humanity and observation. But, having crossed the
         bridge and gone some distance straight onward, she remembered that she
         must ask for a direction; and it was only then, when she stopped and
         turned to look about her for a promising place of inquiry, that she
         found herself surrounded by an eager glare of faces.

         'Why are you encircling me?' she asked, trembling.

         None of those who were nearest answered; but from the outer ring there
         arose a shrill cry of ''Cause you're mad!'

         'I am sure as sane as any one here. I want to find the Marshalsea
         prison.'

         The shrill outer circle again retorted, 'Then that 'ud show you was mad
         if nothing else did, 'cause it's right opposite!'

         A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way through to her, as
         a whooping ensued on this reply, and said: 'Was it the Marshalsea you
         wanted? I'm going on duty there. Come across with me.'

         She laid her hand upon his arm, and he took her over the way; the crowd,
         rather injured by the near prospect of losing her, pressing before and
         behind and on either side, and recommending an adjournment to Bedlam.
         After a momentary whirl in the outer court-yard, the prison-door opened,
         and shut upon them. In the Lodge, which seemed by contrast with the
         outer noise a place of refuge and peace, a yellow lamp was already
         striving with the prison shadows.

         'Why, John!' said the turnkey who admitted them. 'What is it?'

         'Nothing, father; only this lady not knowing her way, and being badgered
         by the boys. Who did you want, ma'am?'

         'Miss Dorrit. Is she here?'

         The young man became more interested. 'Yes, she is here. What might your
         name be?'

         'Mrs Clennam.'

         'Mr Clennam's mother?' asked the young man.

         She pressed her lips together, and hesitated. 'Yes. She had better be
         told it is his mother.'

         'You see,' said the young man,'the Marshal's family living in the
         country at present, the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms
         in his house to use when she likes. Don't you think you had better come
         up there, and let me bring Miss Dorrit?'

         She signified her assent, and he unlocked a door and conducted her up
         a side staircase into a dwelling-house above. He showed her into a
         darkening room, and left her. The room looked down into the darkening
         prison-yard, with its inmates strolling here and there, leaning out
         of windows communing as much apart as they could with friends who were
         going away, and generally wearing out their imprisonment as they best
         might that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness
         of the place, oppressive; and from without there arose a rush of
         free sounds, like the jarring memory of such things in a headache and
         heartache. She stood at the window, bewildered, looking down into this
         prison as it were out of her own different prison, when a soft word or
         two of surprise made her start, and Little Dorrit stood before her.

         'Is it possible, Mrs Clennam, that you are so happily recovered as--'

         Little Dorrit stopped, for there was neither happiness nor health in the
         face that turned to her.

         'This is not recovery; it is not strength; I don't know what it is.'
         With an agitated wave of her hand, she put all that aside. 'You have a
         packet left with you which you were to give to Arthur, if it was not
         reclaimed before this place closed to-night.'

         'Yes.'

         'I reclaim it.'

         Little Dorrit took it from her bosom, and gave it into her hand, which
         remained stretched out after receiving it.

         'Have you any idea of its contents?'

         Frightened by her being there with that new power Of Movement in her,
         which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which was unreal
         to look upon, as though a picture or statue had been animated, Little
         Dorrit answered 'No.'

         'Read them.'

         Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand, and
         broke the seal. Mrs Clennam then gave her the inner packet that was
         addressed to herself, and held the other. The shadow of the wall and of
         the prison buildings, which made the room sombre at noon, made it too
         dark to read there, with the dusk deepening apace, save in the window.
         In the window, where a little of the bright summer evening sky
         could shine upon her, Little Dorrit stood, and read. After a broken
         exclamation or so of wonder and of terror, she read in silence. When
         she had finished, she looked round, and her old mistress bowed herself
         before her.

         'You know, now, what I have done.'

         'I think so. I am afraid so; though my mind is so hurried, and so sorry,
         and has so much to pity that it has not been able to follow all I have
         read,' said Little Dorrit tremulously.

         'I will restore to you what I have withheld from you. Forgive me. Can
         you forgive me?'

         'I can, and Heaven knows I do! Do not kiss my dress and kneel to me; you
         are too old to kneel to me; I forgive you freely without that.'

         'I have more yet to ask.'

         'Not in that posture,' said Little Dorrit. 'It is unnatural to see your
         grey hair lower than mine. Pray rise; let me help you.' With that she
         raised her up, and stood rather shrinking from her, but looking at her
         earnestly.

         'The great petition that I make to you (there is another which grows
                 out of it), the great supplication that I address to your merciful and
         gentle heart, is, that you will not disclose this to Arthur until I am
         dead. If you think, when you have had time for consideration, that it
         can do him any good to know it while I am yet alive, then tell him. But
         you will not think that; and in such case, will you promise me to spare
         me until I am dead?'

         'I am so sorry, and what I have read has so confused my thoughts,'
         returned Little Dorrit, 'that I can scarcely give you a steady answer.
         If I should be quite sure that to be acquainted with it will do Mr
         Clennam no good--'

         'I know you are attached to him, and will make him the first
         consideration. It is right that he should be the first consideration. I
         ask that. But, having regarded him, and still finding that you may spare
         me for the little time I shall remain on earth, will you do it?'

         'I will.'

         'GOD bless you!'

         She stood in the shadow so that she was only a veiled form to Little
         Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, in saying those three
         grateful words, was at once fervent and broken--broken by emotion as
         unfamiliar to her frozen eyes as action to her frozen limbs.

         'You will wonder, perhaps,' she said in a stronger tone, 'that I can
         better bear to be known to you whom I have wronged, than to the son
         of my enemy who wronged me.--For she did wrong me! She not only sinned
         grievously against the Lord, but she wronged me. What Arthur's father
         was to me, she made him. From our marriage day I was his dread, and that
         she made me. I was the scourge of both, and that is referable to her.
         You love Arthur (I can see the blush upon your face; may it be the dawn
                 of happier days to both of you!), and you will have thought already that
         he is as merciful and kind as you, and why do I not trust myself to him
         as soon as to you. Have you not thought so?'

         'No thought,' said Little Dorrit, 'can be quite a stranger to my heart,
         that springs out of the knowledge that Mr Clennam is always to be relied
         upon for being kind and generous and good.'

         'I do not doubt it. Yet Arthur is, of the whole world, the one person
         from whom I would conceal this, while I am in it. I kept over him as
         a child, in the days of his first remembrance, my restraining and
         correcting hand. I was stern with him, knowing that the transgressions
         of the parents are visited on their offspring, and that there was an
         angry mark upon him at his birth. I have sat with him and his father,
         seeing the weakness of his father yearning to unbend to him; and forcing
         it back, that the child might work out his release in bondage and
         hardship. I have seen him, with his mother's face, looking up at me in
         awe from his little books, and trying to soften me with his mother's
         ways that hardened me.'

         The shrinking of her auditress stopped her for a moment in her flow of
         words, delivered in a retrospective gloomy voice.

         'For his good. Not for the satisfaction of my injury. What was I, and
         what was the worth of that, before the curse of Heaven! I have seen that
         child grow up; not to be pious in a chosen way (his mother's influence
                 lay too heavy on him for that), but still to be just and upright, and
         to be submissive to me. He never loved me, as I once half-hoped he
         might--so frail we are, and so do the corrupt affections of the flesh
         war with our trusts and tasks; but he always respected me and ordered
         himself dutifully to me. He does to this hour. With an empty place in
         his heart that he has never known the meaning of, he has turned
         away from me and gone his separate road; but even that he has done
         considerately and with deference. These have been his relations towards
         me. Yours have been of a much slighter kind, spread over a much shorter
         time. When you have sat at your needle in my room, you have been in fear
         of me, but you have supposed me to have been doing you a kindness; you
         are better informed now, and know me to have done you an injury. Your
         misconstruction and misunderstanding of the cause in which, and the
         motives with which, I have worked out this work, is lighter to endure
         than his would be. I would not, for any worldly recompense I can
         imagine, have him in a moment, however blindly, throw me down from the
         station I have held before him all his life, and change me altogether
         into something he would cast out of his respect, and think detected and
         exposed. Let him do it, if it must be done, when I am not here to see
         it. Let me never feel, while I am still alive, that I die before his
         face, and utterly perish away from him, like one consumed by lightning
         and swallowed by an earthquake.'

         Her pride was very strong in her, the pain of it and of her old passions
         was very sharp with her, when she thus expressed herself. Not less so,
         when she added:

         'Even now, I see _you_ shrink from me, as if I had been cruel.'

         Little Dorrit could not gainsay it. She tried not to show it, but she
         recoiled with dread from the state of mind that had burnt so fiercely
         and lasted so long. It presented itself to her, with no sophistry upon
         it, in its own plain nature.

         'I have done,' said Mrs Clennam,'what it was given to me to do. I have
         set myself against evil; not against good. I have been an instrument
         of severity against sin. Have not mere sinners like myself been
         commissioned to lay it low in all time?'

         'In all time?' repeated Little Dorrit.

         'Even if my own wrong had prevailed with me, and my own vengeance had
         moved me, could I have found no justification? None in the old days
         when the innocent perished with the guilty, a thousand to one? When the
         wrath of the hater of the unrighteous was not slaked even in blood, and
         yet found favour?'

         'O, Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam,' said Little Dorrit, 'angry feelings and
         unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life
         has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very
         defective; but let me implore you to remember later and better days.
         Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the
         friend of all who were afflicted and forlorn, the patient Master who
         shed tears of compassion for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if
         we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There
         is no vengeance and no infliction of suffering in His life, I am sure.
         There can be no confusion in following Him, and seeking for no other
         footsteps, I am certain.'

         In the softened light of the window, looking from the scene of her early
         trials to the shining sky, she was not in stronger opposition to the
         black figure in the shade than the life and doctrine on which she rested
         were to that figure's history. It bent its head low again, and said not
         a word. It remained thus, until the first warning bell began to ring.

         'Hark!' cried Mrs Clennam starting, 'I said I had another petition.
         It is one that does not admit of delay. The man who brought you this
         packet and possesses these proofs, is now waiting at my house to be
         bought off. I can keep this from Arthur, only by buying him off. He
         asks a large sum; more than I can get together to pay him without having
         time. He refuses to make any abatement, because his threat is, that if
         he fails with me, he will come to you. Will you return with me and show
         him that you already know it? Will you return with me and try to prevail
         with him? Will you come and help me with him? Do not refuse what I ask
         in Arthur's name, though I dare not ask it for Arthur's sake!'

         Little Dorrit yielded willingly. She glided away into the prison for a
         few moments, returned, and said she was ready to go. They went out
         by another staircase, avoiding the lodge; and coming into the front
         court-yard, now all quiet and deserted, gained the street.

         It was one of those summer evenings when there is no greater darkness
         than a long twilight. The vista of street and bridge was plain to see,
         and the sky was serene and beautiful. People stood and sat at their
         doors, playing with children and enjoying the evening; numbers were
         walking for air; the worry of the day had almost worried itself out, and
         few but themselves were hurried. As they crossed the bridge, the clear
         steeples of the many churches looked as if they had advanced out of the
         murk that usually enshrouded them, and come much nearer. The smoke that
         rose into the sky had lost its dingy hue and taken a brightness upon it.
         The beauties of the sunset had not faded from the long light films of
         cloud that lay at peace in the horizon. From a radiant centre, over
         the whole length and breadth of the tranquil firmament, great shoots of
         light streamed among the early stars, like signs of the blessed later
         covenant of peace and hope that changed the crown of thorns into a
         glory.

         Less remarkable, now that she was not alone and it was darker, Mrs
         Clennam hurried on at Little Dorrit's side, unmolested. They left the
         great thoroughfare at the turning by which she had entered it, and wound
         their way down among the silent, empty, cross-streets. Their feet were
         at the gateway, when there was a sudden noise like thunder.

         'What was that! Let us make haste in,' cried Mrs Clennam.

         They were in the gateway. Little Dorrit, with a piercing cry, held her
         back.

         In one swift instant the old house was before them, with the man lying
         smoking in the window; another thundering sound, and it heaved, surged
         outward, opened asunder in fifty places, collapsed, and fell. Deafened
         by the noise, stifled, choked, and blinded by the dust, they hid their
         faces and stood rooted to the spot. The dust storm, driving between them
         and the placid sky, parted for a moment and showed them the stars. As
         they looked up, wildly crying for help, the great pile of chimneys,
         which was then alone left standing like a tower in a whirlwind, rocked,
         broke, and hailed itself down upon the heap of ruin, as if every
         tumbling fragment were intent on burying the crushed wretch deeper.

         So blackened by the flying particles of rubbish as to be unrecognisable,
         they ran back from the gateway into the street, crying and shrieking.
         There, Mrs Clennam dropped upon the stones; and she never from that hour
         moved so much as a finger again, or had the power to speak one word.
         For upwards of three years she reclined in a wheeled chair, looking
         attentively at those about her and appearing to understand what they
         said; but the rigid silence she had so long held was evermore enforced
         upon her, and except that she could move her eyes and faintly express a
         negative and affirmative with her head, she lived and died a statue.

         Affery had been looking for them at the prison, and had caught sight
         of them at a distance on the bridge. She came up to receive her old
         mistress in her arms, to help to carry her into a neighbouring house,
         and to be faithful to her. The mystery of the noises was out now;
Affery, like greater people, had always been right in her facts, and
always wrong in the theories she deduced from them.

When the storm of dust had cleared away and the summer night was calm
again, numbers of people choked up every avenue of access, and parties
of diggers were formed to relieve one another in digging among the
ruins. There had been a hundred people in the house at the time of its
fall, there had been fifty, there had been fifteen, there had been
two. Rumour finally settled the number at two; the foreigner and Mr
Flintwinch.

The diggers dug all through the short night by flaring pipes of gas, and
on a level with the early sun, and deeper and deeper below it as it rose
into its zenith, and aslant of it as it declined, and on a level with it
again as it departed. Sturdy digging, and shovelling, and carrying away,
      in carts, barrows, and baskets, went on without intermission, by night
      and by day; but it was night for the second time when they found the
      dirty heap of rubbish that had been the foreigner before his head had
      been shivered to atoms, like so much glass, by the great beam that lay
      upon him, crushing him.

      Still, they had not come upon Flintwinch yet; so the sturdy digging and
      shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission by night and
      by day. It got about that the old house had had famous cellarage (which
              indeed was true), and that Flintwinch had been in a cellar at the
      moment, or had had time to escape into one, and that he was safe under
      its strong arch, and even that he had been heard to cry, in hollow,
      subterranean, suffocated notes, 'Here I am!' At the opposite extremity
      of the town it was even known that the excavators had been able to open
      a communication with him through a pipe, and that he had received both
      soup and brandy by that channel, and that he had said with admirable
      fortitude that he was All right, my lads, with the exception of his
      collar-bone. But the digging and shovelling and carrying away went on
      without intermission, until the ruins were all dug out, and the cellars
      opened to the light; and still no Flintwinch, living or dead, all right
      or all wrong, had been turned up by pick or spade.

      It began then to be perceived that Flintwinch had not been there at the
      time of the fall; and it began then to be perceived that he had been
      rather busy elsewhere, converting securities into as much money as could
      be got for them on the shortest notice, and turning to his own exclusive
      account his authority to act for the Firm. Affery, remembering that the
      clever one had said he would explain himself further in four-and-twenty
      hours' time, determined for her part that his taking himself off within
      that period with all he could get, was the final satisfactory sum and
      substance of his promised explanation; but she held her peace, devoutly
      thankful to be quit of him. As it seemed reasonable to conclude that a
      man who had never been buried could not be unburied, the diggers gave
      him up when their task was done, and did not dig down for him into the
      depths of the earth.

      This was taken in ill part by a great many people, who persisted
      in believing that Flintwinch was lying somewhere among the London
      geological formation. Nor was their belief much shaken by repeated
      intelligence which came over in course of time, that an old man who wore
      the tie of his neckcloth under one ear, and who was very well known to
      be an Englishman, consorted with the Dutchmen on the quaint banks of the
      canals of the Hague and in the drinking-shops of Amsterdam, under the
      style and designation of Mynheer von Flyntevynge.

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

completion: Mrs. Clennam makes her way to the Marshalsea but gets lost and heckled. John Chivery rescues her, takes her to the prison, and gets Little Dorrit. Amy is floored to see Mrs. Clennam out of her wheelchair. She offers congrats... but Mrs. Clennam is in no mood. Mrs. Clennam asks Amy to read the packet that Blandois had given her. Afterwards, Amy kind of backs away from Mrs. Clennam with disgust and fear. Mrs. Clennam is sorry, but she is also consumed with pride. She asks Amy not to tell Arthur any of this until after Mrs. Clennam's death, because she can't bear to see him discard her. She knows he's never loved her - and really, why would he, when she was never nice or kind or affectionate? - but he does respect her and she can't bear losing that. Amy agrees. Mrs. Clennam tells Amy more about her crazy God-assigned-me-to-punish-sins stuff. Amy isn't buying it and tries to correct her Christian theology as being off, since there's a lot of mercy and forgiveness that Mrs. Clennam isn't taking into account. Finally Mrs. Clennam asks Amy to come back to the house with her to show Blandois that she already knows the story, thereby buying Mrs. Clennam some time to come up with the money. They go, and just as they are about to get to the house they hear a very loud thundering noise. The house collapses into a heap of ruins! Blandois, whom they saw sitting in the window smoking, is crushed in the rubble! It turns out Affery was right about the crazy noises in the house! Mrs. Clennam collapses and is catatonic and paralyzed for the rest of her life . For a while they think Flintwinch was in there too, but after much digging no one can find his body. And then it turns out that while this all was happening, he was using his position as a partner in Clennam & Co. to cash out the all the firm's assets and go off to Amsterdam.