prompt:
Chapter: The opinion of the community outside the prison gates bore hard on
Clennam as time went on, and he made no friends among the community
within. Too depressed to associate with the herd in the yard, who got
together to forget their cares; too retiring and too unhappy to join in
the poor socialities of the tavern; he kept his own room, and was held
in distrust. Some said he was proud; some objected that he was
sullen and reserved; some were contemptuous of him, for that he was a
poor-spirited dog who pined under his debts. The whole population were
shy of him on these various counts of indictment, but especially the
last, which involved a species of domestic treason; and he soon became
so confirmed in his seclusion, that his only time for walking up and
down was when the evening Club were assembled at their songs and toasts
and sentiments, and when the yard was nearly left to the women and
children.

Imprisonment began to tell upon him. He knew that he idled and moped.
After what he had known of the influences of imprisonment within the
four small walls of the very room he occupied, this consciousness made
him afraid of himself. Shrinking from the observation of other men, and
shrinking from his own, he began to change very sensibly. Anybody might
see that the shadow of the wall was dark upon him.

One day when he might have been some ten or twelve weeks in jail, and
when he had been trying to read and had not been able to release even
the imaginary people of the book from the Marshalsea, a footstep stopped
at his door, and a hand tapped at it. He arose and opened it, and an
agreeable voice accosted him with 'How do you do, Mr Clennam? I hope I
am not unwelcome in calling to see you.'

It was the sprightly young Barnacle, Ferdinand. He looked very
good-natured and prepossessing, though overpoweringly gay and free, in
contrast with the squalid prison.

'You are surprised to see me, Mr Clennam,' he said, taking the seat
which Clennam offered him.

'I must confess to being much surprised.'

'Not disagreeably, I hope?'

'By no means.'

'Thank you. Frankly,' said the engaging young Barnacle, 'I have been
excessively sorry to hear that you were under the necessity of a
temporary retirement here, and I hope (of course as between two private
        gentlemen) that our place has had nothing to do with it?'

'Your office?'

'Our Circumlocution place.'

'I cannot charge any part of my reverses upon that remarkable
establishment.'

'Upon my life,' said the vivacious young Barnacle, 'I am heartily glad to
know it. It is quite a relief to me to hear you say it. I should have
so exceedingly regretted our place having had anything to do with your
difficulties.'

Clennam again assured him that he absolved it of the responsibility.

'That's right,' said Ferdinand. 'I am very happy to hear it. I was
rather afraid in my own mind that we might have helped to floor you,
       because there is no doubt that it is our misfortune to do that kind
       of thing now and then. We don't want to do it; but if men will be
       gravelled, why--we can't help it.'

       'Without giving an unqualified assent to what you say,' returned Arthur,
       gloomily, 'I am much obliged to you for your interest in me.'

       'No, but really! Our place is,' said the easy young Barnacle, 'the most
       inoffensive place possible. You'll say we are a humbug. I won't say
       we are not; but all that sort of thing is intended to be, and must be.
       Don't you see?'

       'I do not,' said Clennam.

       'You don't regard it from the right point of view. It is the point of
       view that is the essential thing. Regard our place from the point of
       view that we only ask you to leave us alone, and we are as capital a
       Department as you'll find anywhere.'

       'Is your place there to be left alone?' asked Clennam.

       'You exactly hit it,' returned Ferdinand. 'It is there with the express
       intention that everything shall be left alone. That is what it means.
       That is what it's for. No doubt there's a certain form to be kept up
       that it's for something else, but it's only a form. Why, good Heaven,
       we are nothing but forms! Think what a lot of our forms you have gone
       through. And you have never got any nearer to an end?'

       'Never,' said Clennam.

       'Look at it from the right point of view, and there you have
       us--official and effectual. It's like a limited game of cricket. A field
       of outsiders are always going in to bowl at the Public Service, and we
       block the balls.'

       Clennam asked what became of the bowlers? The airy young Barnacle
       replied that they grew tired, got dead beat, got lamed, got their backs
       broken, died off, gave it up, went in for other games.

       'And this occasions me to congratulate myself again,' he pursued,
       'on the circumstance that our place has had nothing to do with your
       temporary retirement. It very easily might have had a hand in it;
       because it is undeniable that we are sometimes a most unlucky place, in
       our effects upon people who will not leave us alone. Mr Clennam, I am
       quite unreserved with you. As between yourself and myself, I know I may
       be. I was so, when I first saw you making the mistake of not leaving us
       alone; because I perceived that you were inexperienced and sanguine, and
       had--I hope you'll not object to my saying--some simplicity?'

       'Not at all.'

       'Some simplicity. Therefore I felt what a pity it was, and I went out
       of my way to hint to you (which really was not official, but I never am
               official when I can help it) something to the effect that if I were you,
       I wouldn't bother myself. However, you did bother yourself, and you have
       since bothered yourself. Now, don't do it any more.'

       'I am not likely to have the opportunity,' said Clennam.

       'Oh yes, you are! You'll leave here. Everybody leaves here. There are no
       ends of ways of leaving here. Now, don't come back to us. That entreaty
       is the second object of my call. Pray, don't come back to us. Upon my
       honour,' said Ferdinand in a very friendly and confiding way, 'I shall
       be greatly vexed if you don't take warning by the past and keep away
       from us.'

       'And the invention?' said Clennam.

       'My good fellow,' returned Ferdinand, 'if you'll excuse the freedom of
       that form of address, nobody wants to know of the invention, and nobody
       cares twopence-halfpenny about it.'

       'Nobody in the Office, that is to say?'

       'Nor out of it. Everybody is ready to dislike and ridicule any
       invention. You have no idea how many people want to be left alone.
       You have no idea how the Genius of the country (overlook the
               Parliamentary nature of the phrase, and don't be bored by it) tends
       to being left alone. Believe me, Mr Clennam,' said the sprightly young
       Barnacle in his pleasantest manner, 'our place is not a wicked Giant to
       be charged at full tilt; but only a windmill showing you, as it grinds
       immense quantities of chaff, which way the country wind blows.'

       'If I could believe that,' said Clennam, 'it would be a dismal prospect
       for all of us.'

       'Oh! Don't say so!' returned Ferdinand. 'It's all right. We must have
       humbug, we all like humbug, we couldn't get on without humbug. A little
       humbug, and a groove, and everything goes on admirably, if you leave it
       alone.'

       With this hopeful confession of his faith as the head of the rising
       Barnacles who were born of woman, to be followed under a variety of
       watchwords which they utterly repudiated and disbelieved, Ferdinand
       rose. Nothing could be more agreeable than his frank and courteous
       bearing, or adapted with a more gentlemanly instinct to the
       circumstances of his visit.

       'Is it fair to ask,' he said, as Clennam gave him his hand with a real
       feeling of thankfulness for his candour and good-humour, 'whether it
       is true that our late lamented Merdle is the cause of this passing
       inconvenience?'

       'I am one of the many he has ruined. Yes.'

       'He must have been an exceedingly clever fellow,' said Ferdinand
       Barnacle.

       Arthur, not being in the mood to extol the memory of the deceased, was
       silent.

       'A consummate rascal, of course,' said Ferdinand, 'but remarkably
       clever! One cannot help admiring the fellow. Must have been such a
       master of humbug. Knew people so well--got over them so completely--did
       so much with them!'

       In his easy way, he was really moved to genuine admiration.

       'I hope,' said Arthur, 'that he and his dupes may be a warning to people
       not to have so much done with them again.'

       'My dear Mr Clennam,' returned Ferdinand, laughing, 'have you really
       such a verdant hope? The next man who has as large a capacity and as
       genuine a taste for swindling, will succeed as well. Pardon me, but
       I think you really have no idea how the human bees will swarm to the
       beating of any old tin kettle; in that fact lies the complete manual of
       governing them. When they can be got to believe that the kettle is made
       of the precious metals, in that fact lies the whole power of men like
       our late lamented. No doubt there are here and there,' said Ferdinand
       politely, 'exceptional cases, where people have been taken in for what
       appeared to them to be much better reasons; and I need not go far to
       find such a case; but they don't invalidate the rule. Good day! I hope
       that when I have the pleasure of seeing you, next, this passing cloud
       will have given place to sunshine. Don't come a step beyond the door. I
       know the way out perfectly. Good day!'

       With those words, the best and brightest of the Barnacles went
       down-stairs, hummed his way through the Lodge, mounted his horse in the
       front court-yard, and rode off to keep an appointment with his noble
       kinsman, who wanted a little coaching before he could triumphantly
       answer certain infidel Snobs who were going to question the Nobs about
       their statesmanship.

       He must have passed Mr Rugg on his way out, for, a minute or two
       afterwards, that ruddy-headed gentleman shone in at the door, like an
       elderly Phoebus.

       'How do you do to-day, sir?' said Mr Rugg. 'Is there any little thing I
       can do for you to-day, sir?'

       'No, I thank you.'

       Mr Rugg's enjoyment of embarrassed affairs was like a housekeeper's
       enjoyment in pickling and preserving, or a washerwoman's enjoyment of a
       heavy wash, or a dustman's enjoyment of an overflowing dust-bin, or any
       other professional enjoyment of a mess in the way of business.

       'I still look round, from time to time, sir,' said Mr Rugg, cheerfully,
       'to see whether any lingering Detainers are accumulating at the gate.
       They have fallen in pretty thick, sir; as thick as we could have
       expected.'

       He remarked upon the circumstance as if it were matter of
       congratulation: rubbing his hands briskly, and rolling his head a
       little.

       'As thick,' repeated Mr Rugg, 'as we could reasonably have expected.
       Quite a shower-bath of 'em. I don't often intrude upon you now, when I
       look round, because I know you are not inclined for company, and that if
       you wished to see me, you would leave word in the Lodge. But I am here
       pretty well every day, sir. Would this be an unseasonable time, sir,'
       asked Mr Rugg, coaxingly, 'for me to offer an observation?'

       'As seasonable a time as any other.'

       'Hum! Public opinion, sir,' said Mr Rugg, 'has been busy with you.'

       'I don't doubt it.'

       'Might it not be advisable, sir,' said Mr Rugg, more coaxingly yet, 'now
       to make, at last and after all, a trifling concession to public opinion?
       We all do it in one way or another. The fact is, we must do it.'

       'I cannot set myself right with it, Mr Rugg, and have no business to
       expect that I ever shall.'

       'Don't say that, sir, don't say that. The cost of being moved to the
       Bench is almost insignificant, and if the general feeling is strong that
       you ought to be there, why--really--'

       'I thought you had settled, Mr Rugg,' said Arthur, 'that my
       determination to remain here was a matter of taste.'

       'Well, sir, well! But is it good taste, is it good taste? That's the
       Question.' Mr Rugg was so soothingly persuasive as to be quite pathetic.
       'I was almost going to say, is it good feeling? This is an extensive
       affair of yours; and your remaining here where a man can come for a
       pound or two, is remarked upon as not in keeping. It is not in keeping.
       I can't tell you, sir, in how many quarters I heard it mentioned. I
       heard comments made upon it last night in a Parlour frequented by what
       I should call, if I did not look in there now and then myself, the best
       legal company--I heard, there, comments on it that I was sorry to hear.
       They hurt me on your account. Again, only this morning at breakfast. My
       daughter (but a woman, you'll say: yet still with a feeling for these
               things, and even with some little personal experience, as the plaintiff
               in Rugg and Bawkins) was expressing her great surprise; her great
       surprise. Now under these circumstances, and considering that none of
       us can quite set ourselves above public opinion, wouldn't a trifling
       concession to that opinion be--Come, sir,' said Rugg, 'I will put it on
       the lowest ground of argument, and say, Amiable?'

       Arthur's thoughts had once more wandered away to Little Dorrit, and the
       question remained unanswered.

       'As to myself, sir,' said Mr Rugg, hoping that his eloquence had reduced
       him to a state of indecision, 'it is a principle of mine not to consider
       myself when a client's inclinations are in the scale. But, knowing your
       considerate character and general wish to oblige, I will repeat that I
       should prefer your being in the Bench. Your case has made a noise; it
       is a creditable case to be professionally concerned in; I should feel on
       a better standing with my connection, if you went to the Bench. Don't
       let that influence you, sir. I merely state the fact.'

       So errant had the prisoner's attention already grown in solitude and
       dejection, and so accustomed had it become to commune with only one
       silent figure within the ever-frowning walls, that Clennam had to shake
       off a kind of stupor before he could look at Mr Rugg, recall the thread
       of his talk, and hurriedly say, 'I am unchanged, and unchangeable, in my
       decision. Pray, let it be; let it be!' Mr Rugg, without concealing that
       he was nettled and mortified, replied:

       'Oh! Beyond a doubt, sir. I have travelled out of the record, sir, I am
       aware, in putting the point to you. But really, when I hear it remarked
       in several companies, and in very good company, that however worthy of a
       foreigner, it is not worthy of the spirit of an Englishman to remain in
       the Marshalsea when the glorious liberties of his island home admit
       of his removal to the Bench, I thought I would depart from the narrow
       professional line marked out to me, and mention it. Personally,' said Mr
       Rugg, 'I have no opinion on the topic.'

       'That's well,' returned Arthur.

       'Oh! None at all, sir!' said Mr Rugg. 'If I had, I should have been
       unwilling, some minutes ago, to see a client of mine visited in this
       place by a gentleman of a high family riding a saddle-horse. But it was
       not my business. If I had, I might have wished to be now empowered to
       mention to another gentleman, a gentleman of military exterior at
       present waiting in the Lodge, that my client had never intended to
       remain here, and was on the eve of removal to a superior abode. But my
       course as a professional machine is clear; I have nothing to do with it.
       Is it your good pleasure to see the gentleman, sir?'

       'Who is waiting to see me, did you say?'

       'I did take that unprofessional liberty, sir. Hearing that I was your
       professional adviser, he declined to interpose before my very limited
       function was performed. Happily,' said Mr Rugg, with sarcasm, 'I did not
       so far travel out of the record as to ask the gentleman for his name.'

       'I suppose I have no resource but to see him,' sighed Clennam, wearily.

       'Then it _is_ your good pleasure, sir?' retorted Rugg. 'Am I honoured by
       your instructions to mention as much to the gentleman, as I pass out? I
       am? Thank you, sir. I take my leave.' His leave he took accordingly, in
       dudgeon.

       The gentleman of military exterior had so imperfectly awakened Clennam's
       curiosity, in the existing state of his mind, that a half-forgetfulness
       of such a visitor's having been referred to, was already creeping over
       it as a part of the sombre veil which almost always dimmed it now, when
       a heavy footstep on the stairs aroused him. It appeared to ascend them,
       not very promptly or spontaneously, yet with a display of stride and
       clatter meant to be insulting. As it paused for a moment on the
       landing outside his door, he could not recall his association with the
       peculiarity of its sound, though he thought he had one. Only a moment
       was given him for consideration. His door was immediately swung open
       by a thump, and in the doorway stood the missing Blandois, the cause of
       many anxieties.

       'Salve, fellow jail-bird!' said he. 'You want me, it seems. Here I am!'

       Before Arthur could speak to him in his indignant wonder, Cavalletto
       followed him into the room. Mr Pancks followed Cavalletto. Neither of
       the two had been there since its present occupant had had possession of
       it. Mr Pancks, breathing hard, sidled near the window, put his hat on
       the ground, stirred his hair up with both hands, and folded his arms,
       like a man who had come to a pause in a hard day's work. Mr Baptist,
       never taking his eyes from his dreaded chum of old, softly sat down on
       the floor with his back against the door and one of his ankles in
       each hand: resuming the attitude (except that it was now expressive of
               unwinking watchfulness) in which he had sat before the same man in the
       deeper shade of another prison, one hot morning at Marseilles.

       'I have it on the witnessing of these two madmen,' said Monsieur
       Blandois, otherwise Lagnier, otherwise Rigaud, 'that you want me,
       brother-bird. Here I am!'

       Glancing round contemptuously at the bedstead, which was
       turned up by day, he leaned his back against it as a resting-place,
       without removing his hat from his head, and stood defiantly lounging
       with his hands in his pockets.

       'You villain of ill-omen!' said Arthur. 'You have purposely cast a
       dreadful suspicion upon my mother's house. Why have you done it?
       What prompted you to the devilish invention?'

       Monsieur Rigaud, after frowning at him for a moment, laughed. 'Hear this
       noble gentleman! Listen, all the world, to this creature of Virtue! But
       take care, take care. It is possible, my friend, that your ardour is a
       little compromising. Holy Blue! It is possible.'

       'Signore!' interposed Cavalletto, also addressing Arthur: 'for to
       commence, hear me! I received your instructions to find him, Rigaud; is
       it not?'

       'It is the truth.'

       'I go, consequentementally,'--it would have given Mrs Plornish great
       concern if she could have been persuaded that his occasional lengthening
       of an adverb in this way, was the chief fault of his English,--'first
       among my countrymen. I ask them what news in Londra, of foreigners
       arrived. Then I go among the French. Then I go among the Germans. They
       all tell me. The great part of us know well the other, and they all tell
       me. But!--no person can tell me nothing of him, Rigaud. Fifteen times,'
       said Cavalletto, thrice throwing out his left hand with all its fingers
       spread, and doing it so rapidly that the sense of sight could hardly
       follow the action, 'I ask of him in every place where go the foreigners;
       and fifteen times,' repeating the same swift performance, 'they know
       nothing. But!--'

       At this significant Italian rest on the word 'But,' his backhanded shake
       of his right forefinger came into play; a very little, and very
       cautiously.

       'But!--After a long time when I have not been able to find that he
       is here in Londra, some one tells me of a soldier with white
       hair--hey?--not hair like this that he carries--white--who lives retired
       secrettementally, in a certain place. But!--' with another rest upon
       the word, 'who sometimes in the after-dinner, walks, and smokes. It is
       necessary, as they say in Italy (and as they know, poor people), to
       have patience. I have patience. I ask where is this certain place. One.
       believes it is here, one believes it is there. Eh well! It is not here,
       it is not there. I wait patientissamentally. At last I find it. Then I
       watch; then I hide, until he walks and smokes. He is a soldier with grey
       hair--But!--' a very decided rest indeed, and a very vigorous play from
       side to side of the back-handed forefinger--'he is also this man that
       you see.'

       It was noticeable, that, in his old habit of submission to one who had
       been at the trouble of asserting superiority over him, he even then
       bestowed upon Rigaud a confused bend of his head, after thus pointing
       him out.

       'Eh well, Signore!' he cried in conclusion, addressing Arthur again. 'I
       waited for a good opportunity. I writed some words to Signor Panco,' an
       air of novelty came over Mr Pancks with this designation, 'to come and
       help. I showed him, Rigaud, at his window, to Signor Panco, who was
       often the spy in the day. I slept at night near the door of the house.
       At last we entered, only this to-day, and now you see him! As he would
       not come up in presence of the illustrious Advocate,' such was Mr
       Baptist's honourable mention of Mr Rugg, 'we waited down below there,
       together, and Signor Panco guarded the street.'

       At the close of this recital, Arthur turned his eyes upon the impudent
       and wicked face. As it met his, the nose came down over the moustache
       and the moustache went up under the nose. When nose and moustache had
       settled into their places again, Monsieur Rigaud loudly snapped his
       fingers half-a-dozen times; bending forward to jerk the snaps at Arthur,
       as if they were palpable missiles which he jerked into his face.

       'Now, Philosopher!' said Rigaud. 'What do you want with me?'

       'I want to know,' returned Arthur, without disguising his abhorrence,
       'how you dare direct a suspicion of murder against my mother's house?'

       'Dare!' cried Rigaud. 'Ho, ho! Hear him! Dare? Is it dare? By Heaven, my
       small boy, but you are a little imprudent!'

       'I want that suspicion to be cleared away,' said Arthur. 'You shall
       be taken there, and be publicly seen. I want to know, moreover,
       what business you had there when I had a burning desire to fling you
       down-stairs. Don't frown at me, man! I have seen enough of you to know
       that you are a bully and coward. I need no revival of my spirits from
       the effects of this wretched place to tell you so plain a fact, and one
       that you know so well.'

       White to the lips, Rigaud stroked his moustache, muttering, 'By Heaven,
       my small boy, but you are a little compromising of my lady, your
       respectable mother'--and seemed for a minute undecided how to act.
       His indecision was soon gone. He sat himself down with a threatening
       swagger, and said:

       'Give me a bottle of wine. You can buy wine here. Send one of your
       madmen to get me a bottle of wine. I won't talk to you without wine.
       Come! Yes or no?'

       'Fetch him what he wants, Cavalletto,' said Arthur, scornfully,
       producing the money.

       'Contraband beast,' added Rigaud, 'bring Port wine! I'll drink nothing
       but Porto-Porto.'

       The contraband beast, however, assuring all present, with his
       significant finger, that he peremptorily declined to leave his post at
       the door, Signor Panco offered his services. He soon returned with the
       bottle of wine: which, according to the custom of the place, originating
       in a scarcity of corkscrews among the Collegians (in common with a
               scarcity of much else), was already opened for use.

       'Madman! A large glass,' said Rigaud.

       Signor Panco put a tumbler before him; not without a visible conflict of
       feeling on the question of throwing it at his head.

       'Haha!' boasted Rigaud. 'Once a gentleman, and always a gentleman.
       A gentleman from the beginning, and a gentleman to the end. What
       the Devil! A gentleman must be waited on, I hope? It's a part of my
       character to be waited on!'

       He half filled the tumbler as he said it, and drank off the contents
       when he had done saying it.

       'Hah!' smacking his lips. 'Not a very old prisoner _that_! I judge by
       your looks, brave sir, that imprisonment will subdue your blood much
       sooner than it softens this hot wine. You are mellowing--losing body
       and colour already. I salute you!'

       He tossed off another half glass: holding it up both before and
       afterwards, so as to display his small, white hand.

       'To business,' he then continued. 'To conversation. You have shown
       yourself more free of speech than body, sir.'

       'I have used the freedom of telling you what you know yourself to be.
       You know yourself, as we all know you, to be far worse than that.'

       'Add, always a gentleman, and it's no matter. Except in that regard, we
       are all alike. For example: you couldn't for your life be a gentleman;
       I couldn't for my life be otherwise. How great the difference! Let us go
       on. Words, sir, never influence the course of the cards, or the course
       of the dice. Do you know that? You do? I also play a game, and words are
       without power over it.'

       Now that he was confronted with Cavalletto, and knew that his story was
       known--whatever thin disguise he had worn, he dropped; and faced it out,
       with a bare face, as the infamous wretch he was.

       'No, my son,' he resumed, with a snap of his fingers. 'I play my game
       to the end in spite of words; and Death of my Body and Death of my Soul!
       I'll win it. You want to know why I played this little trick that
       you have interrupted? Know then that I had, and that I have--do you
       understand me? have--a commodity to sell to my lady your respectable
       mother. I described my precious commodity, and fixed my price. Touching
       the bargain, your admirable mother was a little too calm, too stolid,
       too immovable and statue-like. In fine, your admirable mother vexed me.
       To make variety in my position, and to amuse myself--what! a gentleman
       must be amused at somebody's expense!--I conceived the happy idea of
       disappearing. An idea, see you, that your characteristic mother and my
       Flintwinch would have been well enough pleased to execute. Ah! Bah,
       bah, bah, don't look as from high to low at me! I repeat it. Well enough
       pleased, excessively enchanted, and with all their hearts ravished. How
       strongly will you have it?'

       He threw out the lees of his glass on the ground, so that they nearly
       spattered Cavalletto. This seemed to draw his attention to him anew. He
       set down his glass and said:

       'I'll not fill it. What! I am born to be served. Come then, you
       Cavalletto, and fill!'

       The little man looked at Clennam, whose eyes were occupied with Rigaud,
       and, seeing no prohibition, got up from the ground, and poured out
       from the bottle into the glass. The blending, as he did so, of his old
       submission with a sense of something humorous; the striving of that
       with a certain smouldering ferocity, which might have flashed fire in
       an instant (as the born gentleman seemed to think, for he had a wary
               eye upon him); and the easy yielding of all to a good-natured, careless,
       predominant propensity to sit down on the ground again: formed a very
       remarkable combination of character.

       'This happy idea, brave sir,' Rigaud resumed after drinking, 'was a
       happy idea for several reasons. It amused me, it worried your dear
       mama and my Flintwinch, it caused you agonies (my terms for a lesson
               in politeness towards a gentleman), and it suggested to all the amiable
       persons interested that your entirely devoted is a man to fear. By
       Heaven, he is a man to fear! Beyond this; it might have restored her wit
       to my lady your mother--might, under the pressing little suspicion your
       wisdom has recognised, have persuaded her at last to announce, covertly,
       in the journals, that the difficulties of a certain contract would be
       removed by the appearance of a certain important party to it. Perhaps
       yes, perhaps no. But that, you have interrupted. Now, what is it you
       say? What is it you want?'

       Never had Clennam felt more acutely that he was a prisoner in bonds,
       than when he saw this man before him, and could not accompany him to his
       mother's house. All the undiscernible difficulties and dangers he had
       ever feared were closing in, when he could not stir hand or foot.

       'Perhaps, my friend, philosopher, man of virtue, Imbecile, what you
       will; perhaps,' said Rigaud, pausing in his drink to look out of his
       glass with his horrible smile, 'you would have done better to leave me
       alone?'

       'No! At least,' said Clennam, 'you are known to be alive and unharmed.
       At least you cannot escape from these two witnesses; and they can
       produce you before any public authorities, or before hundreds of
       people!'

       'But will not produce me before one,' said Rigaud, snapping his
       fingers again with an air of triumphant menace. 'To the Devil with your
       witnesses! To the Devil with your produced! To the Devil with yourself!
       What! Do I know what I know, for that? Have I my commodity on sale, for
       that? Bah, poor debtor! You have interrupted my little project. Let it
       pass. How then? What remains? To you, nothing; to me, all. Produce
       _me_! Is that what you want? I will produce myself, only too quickly.
       Contrabandist! Give me pen, ink, and paper.'

       Cavalletto got up again as before, and laid them before him in his
       former manner. Rigaud, after some villainous thinking and smiling,
       wrote, and read aloud, as follows:

       'To MRS CLENNAM.

       'Wait answer.

       'Prison of the Marshalsea.
       'At the apartment of your son.

       'Dear Madam,
       'I am in despair to be informed to-day by our prisoner here
       (who has had the goodness to employ spies to seek me, living for politic
        reasons in retirement), that you have had fears for my safety.

       'Reassure yourself, dear madam. I am well, I am strong and constant.

       'With the greatest impatience I should fly to your house, but that I
       foresee it to be possible, under the circumstances, that you will not
       yet have quite definitively arranged the little proposition I have had
       the honour to submit to you. I name one week from this day, for a last
       final visit on my part; when you will unconditionally accept it or
       reject it, with its train of consequences.

       'I suppress my ardour to embrace you and achieve this interesting
       business, in order that you may have leisure to adjust its details to
       our perfect mutual satisfaction.

       'In the meanwhile, it is not too much to propose (our prisoner having
               deranged my housekeeping), that my expenses of lodging and nourishment
       at an hotel shall be paid by you.

       'Receive, dear madam, the assurance of my highest and most distinguished
       consideration,

       'RIGAUD BLANDOIS.

       'A thousand friendships to that dear Flintwinch.

       'I kiss the hands of Madame F.'

       When he had finished this epistle, Rigaud folded it and tossed it with
       a flourish at Clennam's feet. 'Hola you! Apropos of producing, let
       somebody produce that at its address, and produce the answer here.'

       'Cavalletto,' said Arthur. 'Will you take this fellow's letter?'

       But, Cavalletto's significant finger again expressing that his post was
       at the door to keep watch over Rigaud, now he had found him with so much
       trouble, and that the duty of his post was to sit on the floor backed up
       by the door, looking at Rigaud and holding his own ankles,--Signor Panco
       once more volunteered. His services being accepted, Cavalletto suffered
       the door to open barely wide enough to admit of his squeezing himself
       out, and immediately shut it on him.

       'Touch me with a finger, touch me with an epithet, question my
       superiority as I sit here drinking my wine at my pleasure,' said Rigaud,
       'and I follow the letter and cancel my week's grace. _You_ wanted me? You
       have got me! How do you like me?'

       'You know,' returned Clennam, with a bitter sense of his helplessness,
       'that when I sought you, I was not a prisoner.'

       'To the Devil with you and your prison,' retorted Rigaud, leisurely,
       as he took from his pocket a case containing the materials for making
       cigarettes, and employed his facile hands in folding a few for present
       use; 'I care for neither of you. Contrabandist! A light.'

       Again Cavalletto got up, and gave him what he wanted. There had been
       something dreadful in the noiseless skill of his cold, white hands, with
       the fingers lithely twisting about and twining one over another like
       serpents. Clennam could not prevent himself from shuddering inwardly, as
       if he had been looking on at a nest of those creatures.

       'Hola, Pig!' cried Rigaud, with a noisy stimulating cry, as if
       Cavalletto were an Italian horse or mule. 'What! The infernal old jail
       was a respectable one to this. There was dignity in the bars and stones
       of that place. It was a prison for men. But this? Bah! A hospital for
       imbeciles!'

       He smoked his cigarette out, with his ugly smile so fixed upon his face
       that he looked as though he were smoking with his drooping beak of a
       nose, rather than with his mouth; like a fancy in a weird picture. When
       he had lighted a second cigarette at the still burning end of the first,
       he said to Clennam:

       'One must pass the time in the madman's absence. One must talk. One
       can't drink strong wine all day long, or I would have another bottle.
       She's handsome, sir. Though not exactly to my taste, still, by
       the Thunder and the Lightning! handsome. I felicitate you on your
       admiration.'

       'I neither know nor ask,' said Clennam, 'of whom you speak.'

       'Della bella Gowana, sir, as they say in Italy. Of the Gowan, the fair
       Gowan.'

       'Of whose husband you were the--follower, I think?'

       'Sir? Follower? You are insolent. The friend.'

       'Do you sell all your friends?'

       Rigaud took his cigarette from his mouth, and eyed him with a momentary
       revelation of surprise. But he put it between his lips again, as he
       answered with coolness:

       'I sell anything that commands a price. How do your lawyers live, your
       politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange? How do you live?
       How do you come here? Have you sold no friend? Lady of mine! I rather
       think, yes!'

       Clennam turned away from him towards the window, and sat looking out at
       the wall.

       'Effectively, sir,' said Rigaud, 'Society sells itself and sells me: and
       I sell Society. I perceive you have acquaintance with another lady. Also
       handsome. A strong spirit. Let us see. How do they call her? Wade.'

       He received no answer, but could easily discern that he had hit the
       mark.

       'Yes,' he went on, 'that handsome lady and strong spirit addresses me in
       the street, and I am not insensible. I respond. That handsome lady and
       strong spirit does me the favour to remark, in full confidence, "I have
       my curiosity, and I have my chagrins. You are not more than ordinarily
       honourable, perhaps?" I announce myself, "Madame, a gentleman from
       the birth, and a gentleman to the death; but _not_ more than ordinarily
       honourable. I despise such a weak fantasy." Thereupon she is pleased to
       compliment. "The difference between you and the rest is," she answers,
       "that you say so." For she knows Society. I accept her congratulations
       with gallantry and politeness. Politeness and little gallantries are
       inseparable from my character. She then makes a proposition, which is,
       in effect, that she has seen us much together; that it appears to her
       that I am for the passing time the cat of the house, the friend of
       the family; that her curiosity and her chagrins awaken the fancy to be
       acquainted with their movements, to know the manner of their life, how
       the fair Gowana is beloved, how the fair Gowana is cherished, and so
       on. She is not rich, but offers such and such little recompenses for the
       little cares and derangements of such services; and I graciously--to do
       everything graciously is a part of my character--consent to accept them.
       O yes! So goes the world. It is the mode.'

       Though Clennam's back was turned while he spoke, and thenceforth to the
       end of the interview, he kept those glittering eyes of his that were too
       near together, upon him, and evidently saw in the very carriage of the
       head, as he passed with his braggart recklessness from clause to clause
       of what he said, that he was saying nothing which Clennam did not
       already know.

       'Whoof! The fair Gowana!' he said, lighting a third cigarette with a
       sound as if his lightest breath could blow her away. 'Charming, but
       imprudent! For it was not well of the fair Gowana to make mysteries of
       letters from old lovers, in her bedchamber on the mountain, that her
       husband might not see them. No, no. That was not well. Whoof! The Gowana
       was mistaken there.'

       'I earnestly hope,' cried Arthur aloud, 'that Pancks may not be long
       gone, for this man's presence pollutes the room.'

       'Ah! But he'll flourish here, and everywhere,' said Rigaud, with an
       exulting look and snap of his fingers. 'He always has; he always will!'
       Stretching his body out on the only three chairs in the room besides
       that on which Clennam sat, he sang, smiting himself on the breast as the
       gallant personage of the song.

       'Who passes by this road so late?
       Compagnon de la Majolaine!
       Who passes by this road so late?
       Always gay!

       'Sing the Refrain, pig! You could sing it once, in another jail. Sing
       it! Or, by every Saint who was stoned to death, I'll be affronted and
       compromising; and then some people who are not dead yet, had better have
       been stoned along with them!'

       'Of all the king's knights 'tis the flower,
       Compagnon de la Majolaine!
       Of all the king's knights 'tis the flower,
       Always gay!'

       Partly in his old habit of submission, partly because his not doing it
       might injure his benefactor, and partly because he would as soon do
       it as anything else, Cavalletto took up the Refrain this time. Rigaud
       laughed, and fell to smoking with his eyes shut.

       Possibly another quarter of an hour elapsed before Mr Pancks's step was
       heard upon the stairs, but the interval seemed to Clennam insupportably
       long. His step was attended by another step; and when Cavalletto opened
       the door, he admitted Mr Pancks and Mr Flintwinch. The latter was no
       sooner visible, than Rigaud rushed at him and embraced him boisterously.

       'How do you find yourself, sir?' said Mr Flintwinch, as soon as he could
       disengage himself, which he struggled to do with very little ceremony.
       'Thank you, no; I don't want any more.' This was in reference to another
       menace of attention from his recovered friend. 'Well, Arthur. You
       remember what I said to you about sleeping dogs and missing ones. It's
       come true, you see.'

       He was as imperturbable as ever, to all appearance, and nodded his head
       in a moralising way as he looked round the room.

       'And this is the Marshalsea prison for debt!' said Mr Flintwinch. 'Hah!
       you have brought your pigs to a very indifferent market, Arthur.'

       If Arthur had patience, Rigaud had not. He took his little Flintwinch,
       with fierce playfulness, by the two lapels of his coat, and cried:

       'To the Devil with the Market, to the Devil with the Pigs, and to the
       Devil with the Pig-Driver! Now! Give me the answer to my letter.'

       'If you can make it convenient to let go a moment, sir,' returned Mr
       Flintwinch, 'I'll first hand Mr Arthur a little note that I have for
       him.'

       He did so. It was in his mother's maimed writing, on a slip of paper,
       and contained only these words:

       'I hope it is enough that you have ruined yourself. Rest contented
       without more ruin. Jeremiah Flintwinch is my messenger and
       representative. Your affectionate M. C.'

       Clennam read this twice, in silence, and then tore it to pieces. Rigaud
       in the meanwhile stepped into a chair, and sat himself on the back with
       his feet upon the seat.

       'Now, Beau Flintwinch,' he said, when he had closely watched the note to
       its destruction, 'the answer to my letter?'

       'Mrs Clennam did not write, Mr Blandois, her hands being cramped,
       and she thinking it as well to send it verbally by me.' Mr Flintwinch
       screwed this out of himself, unwillingly and rustily. 'She sends
       her compliments, and says she doesn't on the whole wish to term
       you unreasonable, and that she agrees. But without prejudicing the
       appointment that stands for this day week.'

       Monsieur Rigaud, after indulging in a fit of laughter, descended from
       his throne, saying, 'Good! I go to seek an hotel!' But, there his eyes
       encountered Cavalletto, who was still at his post.

       'Come, Pig,' he added, 'I have had you for a follower against my will;
       now, I'll have you against yours. I tell you, my little reptiles, I
       am born to be served. I demand the service of this contrabandist as my
       domestic until this day week.'

       In answer to Cavalletto's look of inquiry, Clennam made him a sign
       to go; but he added aloud, 'unless you are afraid of him.' Cavalletto
       replied with a very emphatic finger-negative.'No, master, I am not
       afraid of him, when I no more keep it secrettementally that he was once
       my comrade.' Rigaud took no notice of either remark until he had lighted
       his last cigarette and was quite ready for walking.

       'Afraid of him,' he said then, looking round upon them all. 'Whoof! My
       children, my babies, my little dolls, you are all afraid of him. You
       give him his bottle of wine here; you give him meat, drink, and lodging
       there; you dare not touch him with a finger or an epithet. No. It is his
       character to triumph! Whoof!

       'Of all the king's knights he's the flower,
       And he's always gay!'

       With this adaptation of the Refrain to himself, he stalked out of the
       room closely followed by Cavalletto, whom perhaps he had pressed into
       his service because he tolerably well knew it would not be easy to get
       rid of him. Mr Flintwinch, after scraping his chin, and looking about
       with caustic disparagement of the Pig-Market, nodded to Arthur, and
       followed. Mr Pancks, still penitent and depressed, followed too; after
       receiving with great attention a secret word or two of instructions from
       Arthur, and whispering back that he would see this affair out, and stand
       by it to the end. The prisoner, with the feeling that he was more
       despised, more scorned and repudiated, more helpless, altogether more
       miserable and fallen than before, was left alone again.

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

completion: Arthur is still way depressed and behind bars. He is totally antisocial and mostly just mopes around, miserable. One day, Ferdinand Barnacle, the one not-so-dumb Circumlocution Office employee, comes to visit him. We have to admit, this visit is sort of confusing. Why on earth would this guy come see Arthur in jail? But whatevs. Ferdinand basically comes to tell Arthur to lay off the Doyce invention business once and for all. Arthur is sort of confused, and Ferdinand tells him this basic truth about people: "nobody wants to know of the invention, and nobody cares twopence-halfpenny about it Everybody is ready to dislike and ridicule any invention. You have no idea how many people want to be left alone" . They then talk a little bit about Merdle and the crash. Next Arthur has a visit from Mr. Rugg. Mr. Rugg is there to tell him that it looks bad that he's in the Marshalsea - where the most low-class debtors also put - instead of the fancy new jail, which is just for the super-broke. Arthur says no, and Rugg tells him that there's a soldier waiting to see him. A soldier? What the what? Into the room come Pancks, Cavalletto, and... Blandois! Shocker! Cavalletto tells Arthur how by asking around all the immigrant communities of London, he finally managed to locate Blandois, who had been living in disguise as a retired soldier. Arthur demands why Blandois disappeared and created suspicion around Mrs. Clennam. Blandois tells him that he had a certain thing to sell to Mrs. Clennam, and when she wouldn't meet his price, he decided to make himself scarce for a while. Arthur is furious and frustrated that, because he is in jail, he can't take Blandois to Mrs. Clennam's house and clear her name. Instead, he gets him a pen and paper and makes him write a letter to his mother explaining where he's been. The letter also says that she better come up with the money in a week. Pancks goes out with the letter. Blandois starts talking about Pet, and how good-looking she is. Arthur kind of mocks him for being Gowan's servant - and when Blandois answers that he isn't a servant but rather a friend, Arthur is all, oh, a friend who sells out his friends? Thus, Blandois knows that Arthur knows all about the spying he was doing on the Gowans for Miss Wade. Eventually, Flintwinch shows up with an answer to the letter. But first - a letter for Arthur from his mother that basically says she's totally writing him off, since he's landed in debtor's jail. Thanks, mom. The answer to Blandois is - sounds good . Everyone leaves the room, and Cavalletto follows Blandois out.


prompt:
Chapter: Haggard anxiety and remorse are bad companions to be barred up with.
Brooding all day, and resting very little indeed at night, will not
arm a man against misery. Next morning, Clennam felt that his health was
sinking, as his spirits had already sunk and that the weight under which
he bent was bearing him down.

Night after night he had risen from his bed of wretchedness at twelve or
one o'clock, and had sat at his window watching the sickly lamps in the
yard, and looking upward for the first wan trace of day, hours before it
was possible that the sky could show it to him. Now when the night came,
    he could not even persuade himself to undress.

    For a burning restlessness set in, an agonised impatience of the prison,
    and a conviction that he was going to break his heart and die there,
    which caused him indescribable suffering. His dread and hatred of the
    place became so intense that he felt it a labour to draw his breath in
    it. The sensation of being stifled sometimes so overpowered him, that
    he would stand at the window holding his throat and gasping. At the
    same time a longing for other air, and a yearning to be beyond the blind
    blank wall, made him feel as if he must go mad with the ardour of the
    desire.

    Many other prisoners had had experience of this condition before him,
    and its violence and continuity had worn themselves out in their cases,
    as they did in his. Two nights and a day exhausted it. It came back by
    fits, but those grew fainter and returned at lengthening intervals. A
    desolate calm succeeded; and the middle of the week found him settled
    down in the despondency of low, slow fever.

    With Cavalletto and Pancks away, he had no visitors to fear but Mr and
    Mrs Plornish. His anxiety, in reference to that worthy pair, was that
    they should not come near him; for, in the morbid state of his nerves,
    he sought to be left alone, and spared the being seen so subdued and
    weak. He wrote a note to Mrs Plornish representing himself as occupied
    with his affairs, and bound by the necessity of devoting himself to
    them, to remain for a time even without the pleasant interruption of
    a sight of her kind face. As to Young John, who looked in daily at a
    certain hour, when the turnkeys were relieved, to ask if he could do
    anything for him; he always made a pretence of being engaged in writing,
    and to answer cheerfully in the negative. The subject of their only
    long conversation had never been revived between them. Through all these
    changes of unhappiness, however, it had never lost its hold on Clennam's
    mind.

    The sixth day of the appointed week was a moist, hot, misty day. It
    seemed as though the prison's poverty, and shabbiness, and dirt, were
    growing in the sultry atmosphere. With an aching head and a weary heart,
    Clennam had watched the miserable night out, listening to the fall of
    rain on the yard pavement, thinking of its softer fall upon the country
    earth. A blurred circle of yellow haze had risen up in the sky in lieu
    of sun, and he had watched the patch it put upon his wall, like a bit of
    the prison's raggedness. He had heard the gates open; and the badly shod
    feet that waited outside shuffle in; and the sweeping, and pumping,
    and moving about, begin, which commenced the prison morning. So ill and
    faint that he was obliged to rest many times in the process of getting
    himself washed, he had at length crept to his chair by the open window.
    In it he sat dozing, while the old woman who arranged his room went
    through her morning's work.

    Light of head with want of sleep and want of food (his appetite, and
            even his sense of taste, having forsaken him), he had been two or three
    times conscious, in the night, of going astray. He had heard fragments
    of tunes and songs in the warm wind, which he knew had no existence.
    Now that he began to doze in exhaustion, he heard them again; and voices
    seemed to address him, and he answered, and started.

    Dozing and dreaming, without the power of reckoning time, so that
    a minute might have been an hour and an hour a minute, some abiding
    impression of a garden stole over him--a garden of flowers, with a
    damp warm wind gently stirring their scents. It required such a painful
    effort to lift his head for the purpose of inquiring into this, or
    inquiring into anything, that the impression appeared to have become
    quite an old and importunate one when he looked round. Beside the
    tea-cup on his table he saw, then, a blooming nosegay: a wonderful
    handful of the choicest and most lovely flowers.

    Nothing had ever appeared so beautiful in his sight. He took them up and
    inhaled their fragrance, and he lifted them to his hot head, and he put
    them down and opened his parched hands to them, as cold hands are opened
    to receive the cheering of a fire. It was not until he had delighted in
    them for some time, that he wondered who had sent them; and opened his
    door to ask the woman who must have put them there, how they had come
    into her hands. But she was gone, and seemed to have been long gone; for
    the tea she had left for him on the table was cold. He tried to drink
    some, but could not bear the odour of it: so he crept back to his chair
    by the open window, and put the flowers on the little round table of
    old.

    When the first faintness consequent on having moved about had left him,
    he subsided into his former state. One of the night-tunes was playing
    in the wind, when the door of his room seemed to open to a light touch,
    and, after a moment's pause, a quiet figure seemed to stand there, with
    a black mantle on it. It seemed to draw the mantle off and drop it on
    the ground, and then it seemed to be his Little Dorrit in her old, worn
    dress. It seemed to tremble, and to clasp its hands, and to smile, and
    to burst into tears.

    He roused himself, and cried out. And then he saw, in the loving,
    pitying, sorrowing, dear face, as in a mirror, how changed he was; and
    she came towards him; and with her hands laid on his breast to keep him
    in his chair, and with her knees upon the floor at his feet, and with
    her lips raised up to kiss him, and with her tears dropping on him as
    the rain from Heaven had dropped upon the flowers, Little Dorrit, a
    living presence, called him by his name.

    'O, my best friend! Dear Mr Clennam, don't let me see you weep! Unless
    you weep with pleasure to see me. I hope you do. Your own poor child
    come back!'

    So faithful, tender, and unspoiled by Fortune. In the sound of her
    voice, in the light of her eyes, in the touch of her hands, so
    Angelically comforting and true!

    As he embraced her, she said to him, 'They never told me you were ill,'
    and drawing an arm softly round his neck, laid his head upon her bosom,
    put a hand upon his head, and resting her cheek upon that hand, nursed
    him as lovingly, and GOD knows as innocently, as she had nursed her
    father in that room when she had been but a baby, needing all the care
    from others that she took of them.

    When he could speak, he said, 'Is it possible that you have come to me?
    And in this dress?'

    'I hoped you would like me better in this dress than any other. I have
    always kept it by me, to remind me: though I wanted no reminding. I am
    not alone, you see. I have brought an old friend with me.'

    Looking round, he saw Maggy in her big cap which had been long
    abandoned, with a basket on her arm as in the bygone days, chuckling
    rapturously.

    'It was only yesterday evening that I came to London with my brother.
    I sent round to Mrs Plornish almost as soon as we arrived, that I might
    hear of you and let you know I had come. Then I heard that you were
    here. Did you happen to think of me in the night? I almost believe you
    must have thought of me a little. I thought of you so anxiously, and it
    appeared so long to morning.'

    'I have thought of you--' he hesitated what to call her. She perceived
    it in an instant.

    'You have not spoken to me by my right name yet. You know what my right
    name always is with you.'

    'I have thought of you, Little Dorrit, every day, every hour, every
    minute, since I have been here.'

    'Have you? Have you?'

    He saw the bright delight of her face, and the flush that kindled in
    it, with a feeling of shame. He, a broken, bankrupt, sick, dishonoured
    prisoner.

    'I was here before the gates were opened, but I was afraid to come
    straight to you. I should have done you more harm than good, at first;
    for the prison was so familiar and yet so strange, and it brought back
    so many remembrances of my poor father, and of you too, that at first
    it overpowered me. But we went to Mr Chivery before we came to the gate,
    and he brought us in, and got John's room for us--my poor old room, you
    know--and we waited there a little. I brought the flowers to the door,
    but you didn't hear me.'

    She looked something more womanly than when she had gone away, and the
    ripening touch of the Italian sun was visible upon her face. But,
    otherwise, she was quite unchanged. The same deep, timid earnestness
    that he had always seen in her, and never without emotion, he saw still.
    If it had a new meaning that smote him to the heart, the change was in
    his perception, not in her.

    She took off her old bonnet, hung it in the old place, and noiselessly
    began, with Maggy's help, to make his room as fresh and neat as it could
    be made, and to sprinkle it with a pleasant-smelling water. When that
    was done, the basket, which was filled with grapes and other fruit,
    was unpacked, and all its contents were quietly put away. When that was
    done, a moment's whisper despatched Maggy to despatch somebody else to
    fill the basket again; which soon came back replenished with new
    stores, from which a present provision of cooling drink and jelly, and
    a prospective supply of roast chicken and wine and water, were the first
    extracts. These various arrangements completed, she took out her old
    needle-case to make him a curtain for his window; and thus, with a quiet
    reigning in the room, that seemed to diffuse itself through the else
    noisy prison, he found himself composed in his chair, with Little Dorrit
    working at his side.

    To see the modest head again bent down over its task, and the nimble
    fingers busy at their old work--though she was not so absorbed in it,
    but that her compassionate eyes were often raised to his face, and, when
    they drooped again had tears in them--to be so consoled and comforted,
    and to believe that all the devotion of this great nature was turned to
    him in his adversity to pour out its inexhaustible wealth of goodness
    upon him, did not steady Clennam's trembling voice or hand, or
    strengthen him in his weakness. Yet it inspired him with an inward
    fortitude, that rose with his love. And how dearly he loved her now,
    what words can tell!

    As they sat side by side in the shadow of the wall, the shadow fell like
    light upon him. She would not let him speak much, and he lay back in
    his chair, looking at her. Now and again she would rise and give him
    the glass that he might drink, or would smooth the resting-place of his
    head; then she would gently resume her seat by him, and bend over her
    work again.

    The shadow moved with the sun, but she never moved from his side, except
    to wait upon him. The sun went down and she was still there. She had
    done her work now, and her hand, faltering on the arm of his chair since
    its last tending of him, was hesitating there yet. He laid his hand upon
    it, and it clasped him with a trembling supplication.

    'Dear Mr Clennam, I must say something to you before I go. I have put it
    off from hour to hour, but I must say it.'

    'I too, dear Little Dorrit. I have put off what I must say.'

    She nervously moved her hand towards his lips as if to stop him; then it
    dropped, trembling, into its former place.

    'I am not going abroad again. My brother is, but I am not. He was always
    attached to me, and he is so grateful to me now--so much too grateful,
    for it is only because I happened to be with him in his illness--that
    he says I shall be free to stay where I like best, and to do what I like
    best. He only wishes me to be happy, he says.'

    There was one bright star shining in the sky. She looked up at it while
    she spoke, as if it were the fervent purpose of her own heart shining
    above her.

    'You will understand, I dare say, without my telling you, that my
    brother has come home to find my dear father's will, and to take
    possession of his property. He says, if there is a will, he is sure I
    shall be left rich; and if there is none, that he will make me so.'

    He would have spoken; but she put up her trembling hand again, and he
    stopped.

    'I have no use for money, I have no wish for it. It would be of no value
    at all to me but for your sake. I could not be rich, and you here. I
    must always be much worse than poor, with you distressed. Will you let
    me lend you all I have? Will you let me give it you? Will you let me
    show you that I have never forgotten, that I never can forget, your
    protection of me when this was my home? Dear Mr Clennam, make me of all
    the world the happiest, by saying Yes? Make me as happy as I can be in
    leaving you here, by saying nothing to-night, and letting me go
    away with the hope that you will think of it kindly; and that for my
    sake--not for yours, for mine, for nobody's but mine!--you will give me
    the greatest joy I can experience on earth, the joy of knowing that I
    have been serviceable to you, and that I have paid some little of the
    great debt of my affection and gratitude. I can't say what I wish to
    say. I can't visit you here where I have lived so long, I can't think of
    you here where I have seen so much, and be as calm and comforting as I
    ought. My tears will make their way. I cannot keep them back. But
    pray, pray, pray, do not turn from your Little Dorrit, now, in your
    affliction! Pray, pray, pray, I beg you and implore you with all my
    grieving heart, my friend--my dear!--take all I have, and make it a
    Blessing to me!'

    The star had shone on her face until now, when her face sank upon his
    hand and her own.

    It had grown darker when he raised her in his encircling arm, and softly
    answered her.

    'No, darling Little Dorrit. No, my child. I must not hear of such a
    sacrifice. Liberty and hope would be so dear, bought at such a price,
    that I could never support their weight, never bear the reproach of
    possessing them. But with what ardent thankfulness and love I say this,
    I may call Heaven to witness!'

    'And yet you will not let me be faithful to you in your affliction?'

    'Say, dearest Little Dorrit, and yet I will try to be faithful to you.
    If, in the bygone days when this was your home and when this was your
    dress, I had understood myself (I speak only of myself) better, and
    had read the secrets of my own breast more distinctly; if, through my
    reserve and self-mistrust, I had discerned a light that I see brightly
    now when it has passed far away, and my weak footsteps can never
    overtake it; if I had then known, and told you that I loved and honoured
    you, not as the poor child I used to call you, but as a woman whose
    true hand would raise me high above myself and make me a far happier and
    better man; if I had so used the opportunity there is no recalling--as
    I wish I had, O I wish I had!--and if something had kept us apart then,
    when I was moderately thriving, and when you were poor; I might have met
    your noble offer of your fortune, dearest girl, with other words than
    these, and still have blushed to touch it. But, as it is, I must never
    touch it, never!'

    She besought him, more pathetically and earnestly, with her little
    supplicatory hand, than she could have done in any words.

    'I am disgraced enough, my Little Dorrit. I must not descend so low as
    that, and carry you--so dear, so generous, so good--down with me. GOD
    bless you, GOD reward you! It is past.'

    He took her in his arms, as if she had been his daughter.

    'Always so much older, so much rougher, and so much less worthy, even
    what I was must be dismissed by both of us, and you must see me only as
    I am. I put this parting kiss upon your cheek, my child--who might have
    been more near to me, who never could have been more dear--a ruined man
    far removed from you, for ever separated from you, whose course is
    run while yours is but beginning. I have not the courage to ask to be
    forgotten by you in my humiliation; but I ask to be remembered only as I
    am.'

    The bell began to ring, warning visitors to depart. He took her mantle
    from the wall, and tenderly wrapped it round her.

    'One other word, my Little Dorrit. A hard one to me, but it is a
    necessary one. The time when you and this prison had anything in common
    has long gone by. Do you understand?'

    'O! you will never say to me,' she cried, weeping bitterly, and holding
    up her clasped hands in entreaty, 'that I am not to come back any more!
    You will surely not desert me so!'

    'I would say it, if I could; but I have not the courage quite to shut
    out this dear face, and abandon all hope of its return. But do not come
    soon, do not come often! This is now a tainted place, and I well know
    the taint of it clings to me. You belong to much brighter and better
    scenes. You are not to look back here, my Little Dorrit; you are to look
    away to very different and much happier paths. Again, GOD bless you in
    them! GOD reward you!'

    Maggy, who had fallen into very low spirits, here cried, 'Oh get him
    into a hospital; do get him into a hospital, Mother! He'll never look
    like hisself again, if he an't got into a hospital. And then the little
    woman as was always a spinning at her wheel, she can go to the cupboard
    with the Princess, and say, what do you keep the Chicking there for? and
    then they can take it out and give it to him, and then all be happy!'

    The interruption was seasonable, for the bell had nearly rung itself
    out. Again tenderly wrapping her mantle about her, and taking her on his
    arm (though, but for her visit, he was almost too weak to walk), Arthur
    led Little Dorrit down-stairs. She was the last visitor to pass out at
    the Lodge, and the gate jarred heavily and hopelessly upon her.

    With the funeral clang that it sounded into Arthur's heart, his sense of
    weakness returned. It was a toilsome journey up-stairs to his room, and
    he re-entered its dark solitary precincts in unutterable misery.

    When it was almost midnight, and the prison had long been quiet, a
    cautious creak came up the stairs, and a cautious tap of a key was given
    at his door. It was Young John. He glided in, in his stockings, and held
    the door closed, while he spoke in a whisper.

    'It's against all rules, but I don't mind. I was determined to come
    through, and come to you.'

    'What is the matter?'

    'Nothing's the matter, sir. I was waiting in the court-yard for Miss
    Dorrit when she came out. I thought you'd like some one to see that she
    was safe.'

    'Thank you, thank you! You took her home, John?'

    'I saw her to her hotel. The same that Mr Dorrit was at. Miss Dorrit
    walked all the way, and talked to me so kind, it quite knocked me over.
    Why do you think she walked instead of riding?'

    'I don't know, John.'

    'To talk about you. She said to me, "John, you was always honourable,
    and if you'll promise me that you will take care of him, and never let
    him want for help and comfort when I am not there, my mind will be at
    rest so far." I promised her. And I'll stand by you,' said John Chivery,
    'for ever!'

    Clennam, much affected, stretched out his hand to this honest spirit.

    'Before I take it,' said John, looking at it, without coming from the
    door, 'guess what message Miss Dorrit gave me.'

    Clennam shook his head.

    '"Tell him,"' repeated John, in a distinct, though quavering voice,
    '"that his Little Dorrit sent him her undying love." Now it's delivered.
    Have I been honourable, sir?'

    'Very, very!'

    'Will you tell Miss Dorrit I've been honourable, sir?'

    'I will indeed.'

    'There's my hand, sir,' said John, 'and I'll stand by you forever!'

    After a hearty squeeze, he disappeared with the same cautious creak upon
    the stair, crept shoeless over the pavement of the yard, and, locking
    the gates behind him, passed out into the front where he had left his
    shoes. If the same way had been paved with burning ploughshares, it is
    not at all improbable that John would have traversed it with the same
    devotion, for the same purpose.

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

completion: Arthur's depression worsens. He has panic attacks and anxiety. Then, a week later, he falls ill and mildly hallucinates through his fever. That morning, he wakes up to find... Little Dorrit! Dressed in her old Marshalsea dress, she's been cleaning up his rooms, taking care of him, feeding him, and sewing him some curtains. Aw, just like with dear old dad. Amy says that she's back in London for good, and that she came as soon as she heard he was in prison. Amy has come back with Tip in order to take over Dorrit's property. Amy offers Arthur all of her inheritance to get him out of jail and set him up again. Arthur feels guilty and ashamed and says no. Also, he tells her to please visit less often, since the Marshalsea is such a gross place. Finally, she leaves. A few hours later John Chivery comes to tell Arthur that he took Amy back to the hotel to make sure she got there safe. Also, she had a message for Arthur: she sent him all her undying love.