prompt:
Chapter: Mr Meagles bestirred himself with such prompt activity in the matter of
the negotiation with Daniel Doyce which Clennam had entrusted to him,
    that he soon brought it into business train, and called on Clennam at
    nine o'clock one morning to make his report.

    'Doyce is highly gratified by your good opinion,' he opened the business
    by saying, 'and desires nothing so much as that you should examine the
    affairs of the Works for yourself, and entirely understand them. He has
    handed me the keys of all his books and papers--here they are jingling
    in this pocket--and the only charge he has given me is "Let Mr Clennam
    have the means of putting himself on a perfect equality with me as to
    knowing whatever I know. If it should come to nothing after all, he
    will respect my confidence. Unless I was sure of that to begin with, I
    should have nothing to do with him." And there, you see,' said Mr
    Meagles, 'you have Daniel Doyce all over.'

    'A very honourable character.'

    'Oh, yes, to be sure. Not a doubt of it. Odd, but very honourable. Very
    odd though. Now, would you believe, Clennam,' said Mr Meagles, with
    a hearty enjoyment of his friend's eccentricity, 'that I had a whole
    morning in What's-his-name Yard--'

    'Bleeding Heart?'

    'A whole morning in Bleeding Heart Yard, before I could induce him to
    pursue the subject at all?'

    'How was that?'

    'How was that, my friend? I no sooner mentioned your name in connection
    with it than he declared off.'

    'Declared off on my account?'

    'I no sooner mentioned your name, Clennam, than he said, "That will
    never do!" What did he mean by that? I asked him. No matter, Meagles;
    that would never do. Why would it never do? You'll hardly believe it,
    Clennam,' said Mr Meagles, laughing within himself, 'but it came out
    that it would never do, because you and he, walking down to Twickenham
    together, had glided into a friendly conversation in the course of which
    he had referred to his intention of taking a partner, supposing at the
    time that you were as firmly and finally settled as St Paul's Cathedral.
    "Whereas," says he, "Mr Clennam might now believe, if I entertained his
    proposition, that I had a sinister and designing motive in what was open
    free speech. Which I can't bear," says he, "which I really am too proud
    to bear."'

    'I should as soon suspect--'

    'Of course you would,' interrupted Mr Meagles, 'and so I told him. But
    it took a morning to scale that wall; and I doubt if any other man
    than myself (he likes me of old) could have got his leg over it. Well,
    Clennam. This business-like obstacle surmounted, he then stipulated that
    before resuming with you I should look over the books and form my own
    opinion. I looked over the books, and formed my own opinion. "Is it, on
    the whole, for, or against?" says he. "For," says I. "Then," says he,
    "you may now, my good friend, give Mr Clennam the means of forming
    his opinion. To enable him to do which, without bias and with perfect
    freedom, I shall go out of town for a week." And he's gone,' said Mr
    Meagles; 'that's the rich conclusion of the thing.'

    'Leaving me,' said Clennam, 'with a high sense, I must say, of his
    candour and his--'

    'Oddity,' Mr Meagles struck in. 'I should think so!'

    It was not exactly the word on Clennam's lips, but he forbore to
    interrupt his good-humoured friend.

    'And now,' added Mr Meagles, 'you can begin to look into matters as soon
    as you think proper. I have undertaken to explain where you may want
    explanation, but to be strictly impartial, and to do nothing more.'

    They began their perquisitions in Bleeding Heart Yard that same
    forenoon. Little peculiarities were easily to be detected by experienced
    eyes in Mr Doyce's way of managing his affairs, but they almost always
    involved some ingenious simplification of a difficulty, and some plain
    road to the desired end. That his papers were in arrear, and that he
    stood in need of assistance to develop the capacity of his business, was
    clear enough; but all the results of his undertakings during many years
    were distinctly set forth, and were ascertainable with ease. Nothing had
    been done for the purposes of the pending investigation; everything was
    in its genuine working dress, and in a certain honest rugged order. The
    calculations and entries, in his own hand, of which there were many,
    were bluntly written, and with no very neat precision; but were always
    plain and directed straight to the purpose. It occurred to Arthur that
    a far more elaborate and taking show of business--such as the records of
    the Circumlocution Office made perhaps--might be far less serviceable,
    as being meant to be far less intelligible.

    Three or four days of steady application tendered him master of all the
    facts it was essential to become acquainted with. Mr Meagles was at hand
    the whole time, always ready to illuminate any dim place with the bright
    little safety-lamp belonging to the scales and scoop. Between them they
    agreed upon the sum it would be fair to offer for the purchase of a
    half-share in the business, and then Mr Meagles unsealed a paper in
    which Daniel Doyce had noted the amount at which he valued it; which was
    even something less. Thus, when Daniel came back, he found the affair as
    good as concluded.

    'And I may now avow, Mr Clennam,' said he, with a cordial shake of the
    hand, 'that if I had looked high and low for a partner, I believe I
    could not have found one more to my mind.'

    'I say the same,' said Clennam.

    'And I say of both of you,' added Mr Meagles, 'that you are well
    matched. You keep him in check, Clennam, with your common sense, and you
    stick to the Works, Dan, with your--'

    'Uncommon sense?' suggested Daniel, with his quiet smile.

    'You may call it so, if you like--and each of you will be a right hand
    to the other. Here's my own right hand upon it, as a practical man, to
    both of you.'

    The purchase was completed within a month. It left Arthur in possession
    of private personal means not exceeding a few hundred pounds; but it
    opened to him an active and promising career. The three friends dined
    together on the auspicious occasion; the factory and the factory wives
    and children made holiday and dined too; even Bleeding Heart Yard
    dined and was full of meat. Two months had barely gone by in all, when
    Bleeding Heart Yard had become so familiar with short-commons again,
    that the treat was forgotten there; when nothing seemed new in the
    partnership but the paint of the inscription on the door-posts, DOYCE
    AND CLENNAM; when it appeared even to Clennam himself, that he had had
    the affairs of the firm in his mind for years.

    The little counting-house reserved for his own occupation, was a room of
    wood and glass at the end of a long low workshop, filled with benches,
    and vices, and tools, and straps, and wheels; which, when they were
    in gear with the steam-engine, went tearing round as though they had a
    suicidal mission to grind the business to dust and tear the factory to
    pieces. A communication of great trap-doors in the floor and roof with
    the workshop above and the workshop below, made a shaft of light in
    this perspective, which brought to Clennam's mind the child's old
    picture-book, where similar rays were the witnesses of Abel's
    murder. The noises were sufficiently removed and shut out from the
    counting-house to blend into a busy hum, interspersed with periodical
    clinks and thumps. The patient figures at work were swarthy with the
    filings of iron and steel that danced on every bench and bubbled up
    through every chink in the planking. The workshop was arrived at by a
    step-ladder from the outer yard below, where it served as a shelter for
    the large grindstone where tools were sharpened. The whole had at once
    a fanciful and practical air in Clennam's eyes, which was a welcome
    change; and, as often as he raised them from his first work of getting
    the array of business documents into perfect order, he glanced at these
    things with a feeling of pleasure in his pursuit that was new to him.

    Raising his eyes thus one day, he was surprised to see a bonnet
    labouring up the step-ladder. The unusual apparition was followed by
    another bonnet. He then perceived that the first bonnet was on the head
    of Mr F.'s Aunt, and that the second bonnet was on the head of Flora,
    who seemed to have propelled her legacy up the steep ascent with
    considerable difficulty.

    Though not altogether enraptured at the sight of these visitors, Clennam
    lost no time in opening the counting-house door, and extricating them
    from the workshop; a rescue which was rendered the more necessary by Mr
    F.'s Aunt already stumbling over some impediment, and menacing steam
    power as an Institution with a stony reticule she carried.

    'Good gracious, Arthur,--I should say Mr Clennam, far more proper--the
    climb we have had to get up here and how ever to get down again without
    a fire-escape and Mr F.'s Aunt slipping through the steps and bruised
    all over and you in the machinery and foundry way too only think, and
    never told us!'

    Thus, Flora, out of breath. Meanwhile, Mr F.'s Aunt rubbed her esteemed
    insteps with her umbrella, and vindictively glared.

    'Most unkind never to have come back to see us since that day, though
    naturally it was not to be expected that there should be any attraction
    at _our_ house and you were much more pleasantly engaged, that's pretty
    certain, and is she fair or dark blue eyes or black I wonder, not that
    I expect that she should be anything but a perfect contrast to me in all
    particulars for I am a disappointment as I very well know and you are
    quite right to be devoted no doubt though what I am saying Arthur never
    mind I hardly know myself Good gracious!'

    By this time he had placed chairs for them in the counting-house. As
    Flora dropped into hers, she bestowed the old look upon him.

    'And to think of Doyce and Clennam, and who Doyce can be,' said Flora;
    'delightful man no doubt and married perhaps or perhaps a daughter, now
    has he really? then one understands the partnership and sees it all,
    don't tell me anything about it for I know I have no claim to ask the
    question the golden chain that once was forged being snapped and very
    proper.'

    Flora put her hand tenderly on his, and gave him another of the youthful
    glances.

    'Dear Arthur--force of habit, Mr Clennam every way more delicate and
    adapted to existing circumstances--I must beg to be excused for taking
    the liberty of this intrusion but I thought I might so far presume upon
    old times for ever faded never more to bloom as to call with Mr F.'s
    Aunt to congratulate and offer best wishes, A great deal superior to
    China not to be denied and much nearer though higher up!'

    'I am very happy to see you,' said Clennam, 'and I thank you, Flora,
    very much for your kind remembrance.'

    'More than I can say myself at any rate,' returned Flora, 'for I might
    have been dead and buried twenty distinct times over and no doubt
    whatever should have been before you had genuinely remembered Me or
    anything like it in spite of which one last remark I wish to make, one
    last explanation I wish to offer--'

    'My dear Mrs Finching,' Arthur remonstrated in alarm.

    'Oh not that disagreeable name, say Flora!'

    'Flora, is it worth troubling yourself afresh to enter into
    explanations? I assure you none are needed. I am satisfied--I am
    perfectly satisfied.'

    A diversion was occasioned here, by Mr F.'s Aunt making the following
    inexorable and awful statement:

    'There's mile-stones on the Dover road!'

    With such mortal hostility towards the human race did she discharge this
    missile, that Clennam was quite at a loss how to defend himself; the
    rather as he had been already perplexed in his mind by the honour of a
    visit from this venerable lady, when it was plain she held him in the
    utmost abhorrence. He could not but look at her with disconcertment, as
    she sat breathing bitterness and scorn, and staring leagues away. Flora,
    however, received the remark as if it had been of a most apposite and
    agreeable nature; approvingly observing aloud that Mr F.'s Aunt had a
    great deal of spirit. Stimulated either by this compliment, or by her
    burning indignation, that illustrious woman then added, 'Let him meet
    it if he can!' And, with a rigid movement of her stony reticule (an
            appendage of great size and of a fossil appearance), indicated that
    Clennam was the unfortunate person at whom the challenge was hurled.

    'One last remark,' resumed Flora, 'I was going to say I wish to make one
    last explanation I wish to offer, Mr F.'s Aunt and myself would not have
    intruded on business hours Mr F. having been in business and though the
    wine trade still business is equally business call it what you will and
    business habits are just the same as witness Mr F. himself who had his
    slippers always on the mat at ten minutes before six in the afternoon
    and his boots inside the fender at ten minutes before eight in the
    morning to the moment in all weathers light or dark--would not therefore
    have intruded without a motive which being kindly meant it may be hoped
    will be kindly taken Arthur, Mr Clennam far more proper, even Doyce and
    Clennam probably more business-like.'

    'Pray say nothing in the way of apology,' Arthur entreated. 'You are
    always welcome.'

    'Very polite of you to say so Arthur--cannot remember Mr Clennam until
    the word is out, such is the habit of times for ever fled, and so true
    it is that oft in the stilly night ere slumber's chain has bound people,
    fond memory brings the light of other days around people--very polite
    but more polite than true I am afraid, for to go into the machinery
    business without so much as sending a line or a card to papa--I don't
    say me though there was a time but that is past and stern reality has
    now my gracious never mind--does not look like it you must confess.'

    Even Flora's commas seemed to have fled on this occasion; she was so
    much more disjointed and voluble than in the preceding interview.

    'Though indeed,' she hurried on, 'nothing else is to be expected and why
    should it be expected and if it's not to be expected why should it be,
    and I am far from blaming you or any one, When your mama and my papa
    worried us to death and severed the golden bowl--I mean bond but I dare
    say you know what I mean and if you don't you don't lose much and care
    just as little I will venture to add--when they severed the golden bond
    that bound us and threw us into fits of crying on the sofa nearly choked
    at least myself everything was changed and in giving my hand to Mr F. I
    know I did so with my eyes open but he was so very unsettled and in such
    low spirits that he had distractedly alluded to the river if not oil of
    something from the chemist's and I did it for the best.'

    'My good Flora, we settled that before. It was all quite right.'

    'It's perfectly clear you think so,' returned Flora, 'for you take it
    very coolly, if I hadn't known it to be China I should have guessed
    myself the Polar regions, dear Mr Clennam you are right however and I
    cannot blame you but as to Doyce and Clennam papa's property being about
    here we heard it from Pancks and but for him we never should have heard
    one word about it I am satisfied.'

    'No, no, don't say that.'

    'What nonsense not to say it Arthur--Doyce and Clennam--easier and less
    trying to me than Mr Clennam--when I know it and you know it too and
    can't deny it.'

    'But I do deny it, Flora. I should soon have made you a friendly visit.'

    'Ah!' said Flora, tossing her head. 'I dare say!' and she gave him
    another of the old looks. 'However when Pancks told us I made up my mind
    that Mr F.'s Aunt and I would come and call because when papa--which was
    before that--happened to mention her name to me and to say that you were
    interested in her I said at the moment Good gracious why not have her
    here then when there's anything to do instead of putting it out.'

    'When you say Her,' observed Clennam, by this time pretty well
    bewildered, 'do you mean Mr F.'s--'

    'My goodness, Arthur--Doyce and Clennam really easier to me with old
    remembrances--who ever heard of Mr F.'s Aunt doing needlework and going
    out by the day?'

    'Going out by the day! Do you speak of Little Dorrit?'

    'Why yes of course,' returned Flora; 'and of all the strangest names I
    ever heard the strangest, like a place down in the country with a
    turnpike, or a favourite pony or a puppy or a bird or something from a
    seed-shop to be put in a garden or a flower-pot and come up speckled.'

    'Then, Flora,' said Arthur, with a sudden interest in the conversation,
    'Mr Casby was so kind as to mention Little Dorrit to you, was he? What
    did he say?'

    'Oh you know what papa is,' rejoined Flora, 'and how aggravatingly he
    sits looking beautiful and turning his thumbs over and over one another
    till he makes one giddy if one keeps one's eyes upon him, he said when
    we were talking of you--I don't know who began the subject Arthur (Doyce
            and Clennam) but I am sure it wasn't me, at least I hope not but you
    really must excuse my confessing more on that point.'

    'Certainly,' said Arthur. 'By all means.'

    'You are very ready,' pouted Flora, coming to a sudden stop in a
    captivating bashfulness, 'that I must admit, Papa said you had spoken of
    her in an earnest way and I said what I have told you and that's all.'

    'That's all?' said Arthur, a little disappointed.

    'Except that when Pancks told us of your having embarked in this
    business and with difficulty persuaded us that it was really you I said
    to Mr F.'s Aunt then we would come and ask you if it would be agreeable
    to all parties that she should be engaged at our house when required
    for I know she often goes to your mama's and I know that your mama has
    a very touchy temper Arthur--Doyce and Clennam--or I never might have
    married Mr F. and might have been at this hour but I am running into
    nonsense.'

    'It was very kind of you, Flora, to think of this.'

    Poor Flora rejoined with a plain sincerity which became her better than
    her youngest glances, that she was glad he thought so. She said it with
    so much heart that Clennam would have given a great deal to buy his
    old character of her on the spot, and throw it and the mermaid away for
    ever.

    'I think, Flora,' he said, 'that the employment you can give Little
    Dorrit, and the kindness you can show her--'

    'Yes and I will,' said Flora, quickly.

    'I am sure of it--will be a great assistance and support to her. I do
    not feel that I have the right to tell you what I know of her, for I
    acquired the knowledge confidentially, and under circumstances that
    bind me to silence. But I have an interest in the little creature, and
    a respect for her that I cannot express to you. Her life has been one
    of such trial and devotion, and such quiet goodness, as you can scarcely
    imagine. I can hardly think of her, far less speak of her, without
    feeling moved. Let that feeling represent what I could tell you, and
    commit her to your friendliness with my thanks.'

    Once more he put out his hand frankly to poor Flora; once more poor
    Flora couldn't accept it frankly, found it worth nothing openly, must
    make the old intrigue and mystery of it. As much to her own enjoyment as
    to his dismay, she covered it with a corner of her shawl as she took it.
    Then, looking towards the glass front of the counting-house, and seeing
    two figures approaching, she cried with infinite relish, 'Papa! Hush,
    Arthur, for Mercy's sake!' and tottered back to her chair with an
    amazing imitation of being in danger of swooning, in the dread surprise
    and maidenly flutter of her spirits.

    The Patriarch, meanwhile, came inanely beaming towards the
    counting-house in the wake of Pancks. Pancks opened the door for him,
    towed him in, and retired to his own moorings in a corner.

    'I heard from Flora,' said the Patriarch with his benevolent smile,
    'that she was coming to call, coming to call. And being out, I thought
    I'd come also, thought I'd come also.'

    The benign wisdom he infused into this declaration (not of itself
            profound), by means of his blue eyes, his shining head, and his long
    white hair, was most impressive. It seemed worth putting down among the
    noblest sentiments enunciated by the best of men. Also, when he said to
    Clennam, seating himself in the proffered chair, 'And you are in a new
    business, Mr Clennam? I wish you well, sir, I wish you well!' he seemed
    to have done benevolent wonders.

    'Mrs Finching has been telling me, sir,' said Arthur, after making his
    acknowledgments; the relict of the late Mr F. meanwhile protesting, with
    a gesture, against his use of that respectable name; 'that she hopes
    occasionally to employ the young needlewoman you recommended to my
    mother. For which I have been thanking her.'

    The Patriarch turning his head in a lumbering way towards Pancks, that
    assistant put up the note-book in which he had been absorbed, and took
    him in tow.

    'You didn't recommend her, you know,' said Pancks; 'how could you? You
    knew nothing about her, you didn't. The name was mentioned to you, and
    you passed it on. That's what _you_ did.'

    'Well!' said Clennam. 'As she justifies any recommendation, it is much
    the same thing.'

    'You are glad she turns out well,' said Pancks, 'but it wouldn't have
    been your fault if she had turned out ill. The credit's not yours as it
    is, and the blame wouldn't have been yours as it might have been. You
    gave no guarantee. You knew nothing about her.'

    'You are not acquainted, then,' said Arthur, hazarding a random question,
    'with any of her family?'

    'Acquainted with any of her family?' returned Pancks. 'How should you be
    acquainted with any of her family? You never heard of 'em. You can't
    be acquainted with people you never heard of, can you? You should think
    not!'

    All this time the Patriarch sat serenely smiling; nodding or shaking his
    head benevolently, as the case required.

    'As to being a reference,' said Pancks, 'you know, in a general way,
    what being a reference means. It's all your eye, that is! Look at your
    tenants down the Yard here. They'd all be references for one another,
    if you'd let 'em. What would be the good of letting 'em? It's no
    satisfaction to be done by two men instead of one. One's enough. A
    person who can't pay, gets another person who can't pay, to guarantee
    that he can pay. Like a person with two wooden legs getting another
    person with two wooden legs, to guarantee that he has got two natural
    legs. It don't make either of them able to do a walking match. And four
    wooden legs are more troublesome to you than two, when you don't want
    any.' Mr Pancks concluded by blowing off that steam of his.

    A momentary silence that ensued was broken by Mr F.'s Aunt, who had been
    sitting upright in a cataleptic state since her last public remark. She
    now underwent a violent twitch, calculated to produce a startling effect
    on the nerves of the uninitiated, and with the deadliest animosity
    observed:

    'You can't make a head and brains out of a brass knob with nothing in
    it. You couldn't do it when your Uncle George was living; much less when
    he's dead.'

    Mr Pancks was not slow to reply, with his usual calmness, 'Indeed,
    ma'am! Bless my soul! I'm surprised to hear it.' Despite his presence of
    mind, however, the speech of Mr F.'s Aunt produced a depressing effect
    on the little assembly; firstly, because it was impossible to disguise
    that Clennam's unoffending head was the particular temple of reason
    depreciated; and secondly, because nobody ever knew on these occasions
    whose Uncle George was referred to, or what spectral presence might be
    invoked under that appellation.

    Therefore Flora said, though still not without a certain boastfulness
    and triumph in her legacy, that Mr F.'s Aunt was 'very lively to-day,
    and she thought they had better go.' But Mr F.'s Aunt proved so lively
    as to take the suggestion in unexpected dudgeon and declare that she
    would not go; adding, with several injurious expressions, that if
    'He'--too evidently meaning Clennam--wanted to get rid of her, 'let
    him chuck her out of winder;' and urgently expressing her desire to see
    'Him' perform that ceremony.

    In this dilemma, Mr Pancks, whose resources appeared equal to any
    emergency in the Patriarchal waters, slipped on his hat, slipped out at
    the counting-house door, and slipped in again a moment afterwards with
    an artificial freshness upon him, as if he had been in the country for
    some weeks. 'Why, bless my heart, ma'am!' said Mr Pancks, rubbing up his
    hair in great astonishment, 'is that you? How do you _do_, ma'am? You
    are looking charming to-day! I am delighted to see you. Favour me with
    your arm, ma'am; we'll have a little walk together, you and me, if
    you'll honour me with your company.' And so escorted Mr F.'s Aunt down
    the private staircase of the counting-house with great gallantry and
    success. The patriarchal Mr Casby then rose with the air of having done
    it himself, and blandly followed: leaving his daughter, as she followed
    in her turn, to remark to her former lover in a distracted whisper
    (which she very much enjoyed), that they had drained the cup of life to
    the dregs; and further to hint mysteriously that the late Mr F. was at
    the bottom of it.

    Alone again, Clennam became a prey to his old doubts in reference to his
    mother and Little Dorrit, and revolved the old thoughts and suspicions.
    They were all in his mind, blending themselves with the duties he was
    mechanically discharging, when a shadow on his papers caused him to look
    up for the cause. The cause was Mr Pancks. With his hat thrown back upon
    his ears as if his wiry prongs of hair had darted up like springs and
    cast it off, with his jet-black beads of eyes inquisitively sharp, with
    the fingers of his right hand in his mouth that he might bite the nails,
    and with the fingers of his left hand in reserve in his pocket for
    another course, Mr Pancks cast his shadow through the glass upon the
    books and papers.

    Mr Pancks asked, with a little inquiring twist of his head, if he
    might come in again? Clennam replied with a nod of his head in the
    affirmative. Mr Pancks worked his way in, came alongside the desk, made
    himself fast by leaning his arms upon it, and started conversation with
    a puff and a snort.

    'Mr F.'s Aunt is appeased, I hope?' said Clennam.

    'All right, sir,' said Pancks.

    'I am so unfortunate as to have awakened a strong animosity in the
    breast of that lady,' said Clennam. 'Do you know why?'

    'Does _she_ know why?' said Pancks.

    'I suppose not.'

    '_I_ suppose not,' said Pancks.

    He took out his note-book, opened it, shut it, dropped it into his hat,
    which was beside him on the desk, and looked in at it as it lay at the
    bottom of the hat: all with a great appearance of consideration.

    'Mr Clennam,' he then began, 'I am in want of information, sir.'

    'Connected with this firm?' asked Clennam.

    'No,' said Pancks.

    'With what then, Mr Pancks? That is to say, assuming that you want it of
    me.'

    'Yes, sir; yes, I want it of you,' said Pancks, 'if I can persuade you
    to furnish it. A, B, C, D. DA, DE, DI, DO. Dictionary order. Dorrit.
    That's the name, sir?'

    Mr Pancks blew off his peculiar noise again, and fell to at his
    right-hand nails. Arthur looked searchingly at him; he returned the
    look.

    'I don't understand you, Mr Pancks.'

    'That's the name that I want to know about.'

    'And what do you want to know?'

    'Whatever you can and will tell me.' This comprehensive summary of his
    desires was not discharged without some heavy labouring on the part of
    Mr Pancks's machinery.

    'This is a singular visit, Mr Pancks. It strikes me as rather
    extraordinary that you should come, with such an object, to me.'

    'It may be all extraordinary together,' returned Pancks. 'It may be out
    of the ordinary course, and yet be business. In short, it is business. I
    am a man of business. What business have I in this present world, except
    to stick to business? No business.'

    With his former doubt whether this dry hard personage were quite in
    earnest, Clennam again turned his eyes attentively upon his face. It
    was as scrubby and dingy as ever, and as eager and quick as ever, and he
    could see nothing lurking in it that was at all expressive of a latent
    mockery that had seemed to strike upon his ear in the voice.

    'Now,' said Pancks, 'to put this business on its own footing, it's not
    my proprietor's.'

    'Do you refer to Mr Casby as your proprietor?'

    Pancks nodded. 'My proprietor. Put a case. Say, at my proprietor's I
    hear name--name of young person Mr Clennam wants to serve. Say, name
    first mentioned to my proprietor by Plornish in the Yard. Say, I go to
    Plornish. Say, I ask Plornish as a matter of business for information.
    Say, Plornish, though six weeks in arrear to my proprietor, declines.
    Say, Mrs Plornish declines. Say, both refer to Mr Clennam. Put the
    case.'

    'Well?'

    'Well, sir,' returned Pancks, 'say, I come to him. Say, here I am.'

    With those prongs of hair sticking up all over his head, and his breath
    coming and going very hard and short, the busy Pancks fell back a step
    (in Tug metaphor, took half a turn astern) as if to show his dingy hull
    complete, then forged a-head again, and directed his quick glance by
    turns into his hat where his note-book was, and into Clennam's face.

    'Mr Pancks, not to trespass on your grounds of mystery, I will be as
    plain with you as I can. Let me ask two questions. First--'

    'All right!' said Pancks, holding up his dirty forefinger with his
    broken nail. 'I see! "What's your motive?"'

    'Exactly.'

    'Motive,' said Pancks, 'good. Nothing to do with my proprietor; not
    stateable at present, ridiculous to state at present; but good.
    Desiring to serve young person, name of Dorrit,' said Pancks, with his
    forefinger still up as a caution. 'Better admit motive to be good.'

    'Secondly, and lastly, what do you want to know?'

    Mr Pancks fished up his note-book before the question was put, and
    buttoning it with care in an inner breast-pocket, and looking straight
    at Clennam all the time, replied with a pause and a puff, 'I want
    supplementary information of any sort.'

    Clennam could not withhold a smile, as the panting little steam-tug, so
    useful to that unwieldy ship, the Casby, waited on and watched him as if
    it were seeking an opportunity of running in and rifling him of all he
    wanted before he could resist its manoeuvres; though there was that in
    Mr Pancks's eagerness, too, which awakened many wondering speculations
    in his mind. After a little consideration, he resolved to supply Mr
    Pancks with such leading information as it was in his power to impart
    him; well knowing that Mr Pancks, if he failed in his present research,
    was pretty sure to find other means of getting it.

    He, therefore, first requesting Mr Pancks to remember his voluntary
    declaration that his proprietor had no part in the disclosure, and that
    his own intentions were good (two declarations which that coaly little
            gentleman with the greatest ardour repeated), openly told him that as to
    the Dorrit lineage or former place of habitation, he had no information
    to communicate, and that his knowledge of the family did not extend
    beyond the fact that it appeared to be now reduced to five members;
    namely, to two brothers, of whom one was single, and one a widower with
    three children. The ages of the whole family he made known to Mr Pancks,
    as nearly as he could guess at them; and finally he described to him
    the position of the Father of the Marshalsea, and the course of time and
    events through which he had become invested with that character. To
    all this, Mr Pancks, snorting and blowing in a more and more portentous
    manner as he became more interested, listened with great attention;
    appearing to derive the most agreeable sensations from the painfullest
    parts of the narrative, and particularly to be quite charmed by the
    account of William Dorrit's long imprisonment.

    'In conclusion, Mr Pancks,' said Arthur, 'I have but to say this. I have
    reasons beyond a personal regard for speaking as little as I can of the
    Dorrit family, particularly at my mother's house' (Mr Pancks nodded),
    'and for knowing as much as I can. So devoted a man of business as you
    are--eh?'

    For Mr Pancks had suddenly made that blowing effort with unusual force.

    'It's nothing,' said Pancks.

    'So devoted a man of business as yourself has a perfect understanding of
    a fair bargain. I wish to make a fair bargain with you, that you shall
    enlighten me concerning the Dorrit family when you have it in your
    power, as I have enlightened you. It may not give you a very flattering
    idea of my business habits, that I failed to make my terms beforehand,'
    continued Clennam; 'but I prefer to make them a point of honour. I have
    seen so much business done on sharp principles that, to tell you the
    truth, Mr Pancks, I am tired of them.'

    Mr Pancks laughed. 'It's a bargain, sir,' said he. 'You shall find me
    stick to it.'

    After that, he stood a little while looking at Clennam, and biting his
    ten nails all round; evidently while he fixed in his mind what he had
    been told, and went over it carefully, before the means of supplying a
    gap in his memory should be no longer at hand. 'It's all right,' he said
    at last, 'and now I'll wish you good day, as it's collecting day in the
    Yard. By-the-bye, though. A lame foreigner with a stick.'

    'Ay, ay. You do take a reference sometimes, I see?' said Clennam.

    'When he can pay, sir,' replied Pancks. 'Take all you can get, and
    keep back all you can't be forced to give up. That's business. The lame
    foreigner with the stick wants a top room down the Yard. Is he good for
    it?'

    'I am,' said Clennam, 'and I will answer for him.'

    'That's enough. What I must have of Bleeding Heart Yard,' said Pancks,
    making a note of the case in his book, 'is my bond. I want my bond, you
    see. Pay up, or produce your property! That's the watchword down the
    Yard. The lame foreigner with the stick represented that you sent him;
    but he could represent (as far as that goes) that the Great Mogul sent
    him. He has been in the hospital, I believe?'

    'Yes. Through having met with an accident. He is only just now
    discharged.'

    'It's pauperising a man, sir, I have been shown, to let him into a
    hospital?' said Pancks. And again blew off that remarkable sound.

    'I have been shown so too,' said Clennam, coldly.

    Mr Pancks, being by that time quite ready for a start, got under steam
    in a moment, and, without any other signal or ceremony, was snorting
    down the step-ladder and working into Bleeding Heart Yard, before he
    seemed to be well out of the counting-house.

    Throughout the remainder of the day, Bleeding Heart Yard was in
    consternation, as the grim Pancks cruised in it; haranguing the
    inhabitants on their backslidings in respect of payment, demanding his
    bond, breathing notices to quit and executions, running down defaulters,
    sending a swell of terror on before him, and leaving it in his wake.
    Knots of people, impelled by a fatal attraction, lurked outside any
    house in which he was known to be, listening for fragments of his
    discourses to the inmates; and, when he was rumoured to be coming down
    the stairs, often could not disperse so quickly but that he would be
    prematurely in among them, demanding their own arrears, and rooting them
    to the spot. Throughout the remainder of the day, Mr Pancks's What were
    they up to? and What did they mean by it? sounded all over the Yard. Mr
    Pancks wouldn't hear of excuses, wouldn't hear of complaints, wouldn't
    hear of repairs, wouldn't hear of anything but unconditional money down.
    Perspiring and puffing and darting about in eccentric directions, and
    becoming hotter and dingier every moment, he lashed the tide of the yard
    into a most agitated and turbid state. It had not settled down into calm
    water again full two hours after he had been seen fuming away on the
    horizon at the top of the steps.

    There were several small assemblages of the Bleeding Hearts at the
    popular points of meeting in the Yard that night, among whom it was
    universally agreed that Mr Pancks was a hard man to have to do with; and
    that it was much to be regretted, so it was, that a gentleman like Mr
    Casby should put his rents in his hands, and never know him in his true
    light. For (said the Bleeding Hearts), if a gentleman with that head of
    hair and them eyes took his rents into his own hands, ma'am, there
    would be none of this worriting and wearing, and things would be very
    different.

    At which identical evening hour and minute, the Patriarch--who had
    floated serenely through the Yard in the forenoon before the harrying
    began, with the express design of getting up this trustfulness in his
    shining bumps and silken locks--at which identical hour and minute,
    that first-rate humbug of a thousand guns was heavily floundering in the
    little Dock of his exhausted Tug at home, and was saying, as he turned
    his thumbs:

    'A very bad day's work, Pancks, very bad day's work. It seems to me,
    sir, and I must insist on making this observation forcibly in justice to
    myself, that you ought to have got much more money, much more money.'

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

completion: The Arthur and Doyce deal is done, and now they're partners in Doyce's business. Everything is on the up and up, the total diametric opposite of how the Clennam business was run before. Arthur is psyched, Doyce is psyched, Meagles is psyched for having set the whole thing up. Awesome. One day, working in his new little office in the factory in Bleeding Heart Yard, Arthur gets visitors. It's Flora! And Mr. F's Aunt! He's totally pained that they are there, but what can you do. Mr. F's Aunt continues to hate him and yell at him in a half-senile fashion. Meanwhile, Flora continues to insinuate that they still have some kind of romantic ties and that their forbidden love is about to discovered at any moment. Arthur can't deal with either of them. But it turns out that Flora is actually there because she's going to hire Little Dorrit to do needlework. Her dad, Mr. Casby, mentioned Little Dorrit as someone Arthur had recommended. Arthur is thrilled, and asks Flora to help Little Dorrit in whatever way she can. Pancks and Mr. Casby come in to wish Arthur well with his new job. Arthur in turn thanks them for the Little Dorrit thing, and Pancks clarifies that Mr. Casby didn't recommend her, because he doesn't know her. Pancks does a little speech about credit-worthiness and how it's hard to measure just by looking at someone. Which is not really relevant to their discussion... but is very relevant to the themes of the novel! Time to go. Except, suddenly, Mr. F's Aunt refuses to leave and has to be tricked into going by Pancks. He escorts everyone out and then comes back to Arthur alone. Pancks asks Arthur what he knows about the Dorrits. Arthur is kind of confused, but Pancks tells him that he means well and that this has nothing to do with Casby or any devious business practices. So Arthur tells him the very little he knows. Before leaving, Pancks asks Arthur about "a lame foreigner with a stick" - obviously Cavalletto - who wants to rent a room. Arthur vouches for him, which comes back a little bit to the discussion about Casby not being able to vouch for Little Dorrit. This vouching stuff is key - take our word for it. Pancks spends the rest of the day harassing the Bleeding Heart Yard tenants for rent money. They agree that he's awful and wish that Casby himself were doing the rent-collecting. But - ooh, shocking twist coming up! - when Pancks goes to report to Casby at the end of the day, we see that it's actually the super-nice, awesome-seeming Casby who is the greedy monster, yelling at Pancks for being too easy on the renters.


prompt:
Chapter: Little Dorrit received a call that same evening from Mr Plornish, who,
       having intimated that he wished to speak to her privately, in a series
       of coughs so very noticeable as to favour the idea that her father, as
       regarded her seamstress occupation, was an illustration of the axiom
       that there are no such stone-blind men as those who will not see,
       obtained an audience with her on the common staircase outside the door.

       'There's been a lady at our place to-day, Miss Dorrit,' Plornish
       growled, 'and another one along with her as is a old wixen if ever I met
       with such. The way she snapped a person's head off, dear me!'

       The mild Plornish was at first quite unable to get his mind away from Mr
       F.'s Aunt. 'For,' said he, to excuse himself, 'she is, I do assure you,
       the winegariest party.'

       At length, by a great effort, he detached himself from the subject
       sufficiently to observe:

       'But she's neither here nor there just at present. The other lady, she's
       Mr Casby's daughter; and if Mr Casby an't well off, none better, it an't
       through any fault of Pancks. For, as to Pancks, he does, he really does,
       he does indeed!'

       Mr Plornish, after his usual manner, was a little obscure, but
       conscientiously emphatic.

       'And what she come to our place for,' he pursued, 'was to leave word
       that if Miss Dorrit would step up to that card--which it's Mr Casby's
       house that is, and Pancks he has a office at the back, where he really
       does, beyond belief--she would be glad for to engage her. She was a old
       and a dear friend, she said particular, of Mr Clennam, and hoped for to
       prove herself a useful friend to _his_ friend. Them was her words. Wishing
       to know whether Miss Dorrit could come to-morrow morning, I said I would
       see you, Miss, and inquire, and look round there to-night, to say yes,
       or, if you was engaged to-morrow, when?'

       'I can go to-morrow, thank you,' said Little Dorrit. 'This is very kind
       of you, but you are always kind.'

       Mr Plornish, with a modest disavowal of his merits, opened the room door
       for her readmission, and followed her in with such an exceedingly bald
       pretence of not having been out at all, that her father might
       have observed it without being very suspicious. In his affable
       unconsciousness, however, he took no heed. Plornish, after a little
       conversation, in which he blended his former duty as a Collegian with
       his present privilege as a humble outside friend, qualified again by his
       low estate as a plasterer, took his leave; making the tour of the prison
       before he left, and looking on at a game of skittles with the mixed
       feelings of an old inhabitant who had his private reasons for believing
       that it might be his destiny to come back again.

       Early in the morning, Little Dorrit, leaving Maggy in high domestic
       trust, set off for the Patriarchal tent. She went by the Iron Bridge,
       though it cost her a penny, and walked more slowly in that part of her
       journey than in any other. At five minutes before eight her hand was on
       the Patriarchal knocker, which was quite as high as she could reach.

       She gave Mrs Finching's card to the young woman who opened the door, and
       the young woman told her that 'Miss Flora'--Flora having, on her return
       to the parental roof, reinvested herself with the title under which she
       had lived there--was not yet out of her bedroom, but she was to please
       to walk up into Miss Flora's sitting-room. She walked up into
       Miss Flora's sitting-room, as in duty bound, and there found a
       breakfast-table comfortably laid for two, with a supplementary tray
       upon it laid for one. The young woman, disappearing for a few moments,
       returned to say that she was to please to take a chair by the fire,
       and to take off her bonnet and make herself at home. But Little Dorrit,
       being bashful, and not used to make herself at home on such occasions,
       felt at a loss how to do it; so she was still sitting near the door with
       her bonnet on, when Flora came in in a hurry half an hour afterwards.

       Flora was so sorry to have kept her waiting, and good gracious why did
       she sit out there in the cold when she had expected to find her by the
       fire reading the paper, and hadn't that heedless girl given her the
       message then, and had she really been in her bonnet all this time, and
       pray for goodness sake let Flora take it off! Flora taking it off in the
       best-natured manner in the world, was so struck with the face disclosed,
       that she said, 'Why, what a good little thing you are, my dear!' and
       pressed her face between her hands like the gentlest of women.

       It was the word and the action of a moment. Little Dorrit had hardly
       time to think how kind it was, when Flora dashed at the breakfast-table
       full of business, and plunged over head and ears into loquacity.

       'Really so sorry that I should happen to be late on this morning of all
       mornings because my intention and my wish was to be ready to meet you
       when you came in and to say that any one that interested Arthur Clennam
       half so much must interest me and that I gave you the heartiest welcome
       and was so glad, instead of which they never called me and there I
       still am snoring I dare say if the truth was known and if you don't like
       either cold fowl or hot boiled ham which many people don't I dare say
       besides Jews and theirs are scruples of conscience which we must all
       respect though I must say I wish they had them equally strong when they
       sell us false articles for real that certainly ain't worth the money I
       shall be quite vexed,' said Flora.

       Little Dorrit thanked her, and said, shyly, bread-and-butter and tea was
       all she usually--

       'Oh nonsense my dear child I can never hear of that,' said Flora,
       turning on the urn in the most reckless manner, and making herself wink
       by splashing hot water into her eyes as she bent down to look into the
       teapot. 'You are coming here on the footing of a friend and companion
       you know if you will let me take that liberty and I should be ashamed
       of myself indeed if you could come here upon any other, besides which
       Arthur Clennam spoke in such terms--you are tired my dear.'

       'No, ma'am.'

       'You turn so pale you have walked too far before breakfast and I dare
       say live a great way off and ought to have had a ride,' said Flora,
       'dear dear is there anything that would do you good?'

       'Indeed I am quite well, ma'am. I thank you again and again, but I am
       quite well.'

       'Then take your tea at once I beg,' said Flora, 'and this wing of fowl
       and bit of ham, don't mind me or wait for me, because I always carry in
       this tray myself to Mr F.'s Aunt who breakfasts in bed and a charming
       old lady too and very clever, Portrait of Mr F. behind the door and very
       like though too much forehead and as to a pillar with a marble pavement
       and balustrades and a mountain, I never saw him near it nor not likely
       in the wine trade, excellent man but not at all in that way.'

       Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait, very imperfectly following the
       references to that work of art.

       'Mr F. was so devoted to me that he never could bear me out of his
       sight,' said Flora, 'though of course I am unable to say how long that
       might have lasted if he hadn't been cut short while I was a new broom,
       worthy man but not poetical manly prose but not romance.'

       Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait again. The artist had given it a
       head that would have been, in an intellectual point of view, top-heavy
       for Shakespeare.

       'Romance, however,' Flora went on, busily arranging Mr F.'s Aunt's
       toast, 'as I openly said to Mr F. when he proposed to me and you will be
       surprised to hear that he proposed seven times once in a hackney-coach
       once in a boat once in a pew once on a donkey at Tunbridge Wells and the
       rest on his knees, Romance was fled with the early days of Arthur
       Clennam, our parents tore us asunder we became marble and stern reality
       usurped the throne, Mr F. said very much to his credit that he was
       perfectly aware of it and even preferred that state of things
       accordingly the word was spoken the fiat went forth and such is life you
       see my dear and yet we do not break but bend, pray make a good breakfast
       while I go in with the tray.'

       She disappeared, leaving Little Dorrit to ponder over the meaning of her
       scattered words. She soon came back again; and at last began to take her
       own breakfast, talking all the while.

       'You see, my dear,' said Flora, measuring out a spoonful or two of some
       brown liquid that smelt like brandy, and putting it into her tea, 'I am
       obliged to be careful to follow the directions of my medical man though
       the flavour is anything but agreeable being a poor creature and it may
       be have never recovered the shock received in youth from too much giving
       way to crying in the next room when separated from Arthur, have you
       known him long?'

       As soon as Little Dorrit comprehended that she had been asked this
       question--for which time was necessary, the galloping pace of her new
       patroness having left her far behind--she answered that she had known Mr
       Clennam ever since his return.

       'To be sure you couldn't have known him before unless you had been in
       China or had corresponded neither of which is likely,' returned Flora,
       'for travelling-people usually get more or less mahogany and you are not
       at all so and as to corresponding what about? that's very true unless
       tea, so it was at his mother's was it really that you knew him first,
       highly sensible and firm but dreadfully severe--ought to be the mother
       of the man in the iron mask.'

       'Mrs Clennam has been kind to me,' said Little Dorrit.

       'Really? I am sure I am glad to hear it because as Arthur's mother it's
       naturally pleasant to my feelings to have a better opinion of her than
       I had before, though what she thinks of me when I run on as I am certain
       to do and she sits glowering at me like Fate in a go-cart--shocking
       comparison really--invalid and not her fault--I never know or can
       imagine.'

       'Shall I find my work anywhere, ma'am?' asked Little Dorrit, looking
       timidly about; 'can I get it?'

       'You industrious little fairy,' returned Flora, taking, in another cup
       of tea, another of the doses prescribed by her medical man, 'there's
       not the slightest hurry and it's better that we should begin by being
       confidential about our mutual friend--too cold a word for me at least
       I don't mean that, very proper expression mutual friend--than become
       through mere formalities not you but me like the Spartan boy with the
       fox biting him, which I hope you'll excuse my bringing up for of all
       the tiresome boys that will go tumbling into every sort of company that
       boy's the tiresomest.'

       Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. 'Hadn't I
       better work the while?' she asked. 'I can work and attend too. I would
       rather, if I may.'

       Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without her work,
       that Flora answered, 'Well my dear whatever you like best,' and produced
       a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly put it by her
       side, took out her little pocket-housewife, threaded the needle, and
       began to hem.

       'What nimble fingers you have,' said Flora, 'but are you sure you are
       well?'

       'Oh yes, indeed!'

       Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a thorough
       good romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing her head,
       sighing in the most demonstrative manner, making a great deal of use
       of her eyebrows, and occasionally, but not often, glancing at the quiet
       face that bent over the work.

       'You must know my dear,' said Flora, 'but that I have no doubt you know
       already not only because I have already thrown it out in a general way
       but because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what's his names
       upon my brow that before I was introduced to the late Mr F. I had
       been engaged to Arthur Clennam--Mr Clennam in public where reserve is
       necessary Arthur here--we were all in all to one another it was the
       morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy it was everything else of
       that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder we turned to stone in
       which capacity Arthur went to China and I became the statue bride of the
       late Mr F.'

       Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself immensely.

       'To paint,' said she, 'the emotions of that morning when all was marble
       within and Mr F.'s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it stands to
       reason must have been in shameful repair or it never could have broken
       down two streets from the house and Mr F.'s Aunt brought home like the
       fifth of November in a rush-bottomed chair I will not attempt,
       suffice it to say that the hollow form of breakfast took place in the
       dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too freely of pickled salmon
       was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon a continental
       tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the pier until they
       separated us though not for ever that was not yet to be.'

       The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the greatest
       complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to flesh and
       blood.

       'I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good spirits his
       appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the wine weak but
       palatable and all was well, we returned to the immediate neighbourhood
       of Number Thirty Little Gosling Street London Docks and settled down,
       ere we had yet fully detected the housemaid in selling the feathers
       out of the spare bed Gout flying upwards soared with Mr F. to another
       sphere.'

       His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her
       eyes.

       'I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most indulgent
       husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint
       at any little delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint
       bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort, I returned to papa's roof
       and lived secluded if not happy during some years until one day papa
       came smoothly blundering in and said that Arthur Clennam awaited me
       below, I went below and found him ask me not what I found him except
       that he was still unmarried still unchanged!'

       The dark mystery with which Flora now enshrouded herself might have
       stopped other fingers than the nimble fingers that worked near her.
       They worked on without pause, and the busy head bent over them watching
       the stitches.

       'Ask me not,' said Flora, 'if I love him still or if he still loves me
       or what the end is to be or when, we are surrounded by watchful eyes and
       it may be that we are destined to pine asunder it may be never more to
       be reunited not a word not a breath not a look to betray us all must
       be secret as the tomb wonder not therefore that even if I should seem
       comparatively cold to Arthur or Arthur should seem comparatively cold to
       me we have fatal reasons it is enough if we understand them hush!'

       All of which Flora said with so much headlong vehemence as if she really
       believed it. There is not much doubt that when she worked herself into
       full mermaid condition, she did actually believe whatever she said in
       it.

       'Hush!' repeated Flora, 'I have now told you all, confidence is
       established between us hush, for Arthur's sake I will always be a friend
       to you my dear girl and in Arthur's name you may always rely upon me.'

       The nimble fingers laid aside the work, and the little figure rose and
       kissed her hand. 'You are very cold,' said Flora, changing to her own
       natural kind-hearted manner, and gaining greatly by the change. 'Don't
       work to-day. I am sure you are not well I am sure you are not strong.'

       'It is only that I feel a little overcome by your kindness, and by Mr
       Clennam's kindness in confiding me to one he has known and loved so
       long.'

       'Well really my dear,' said Flora, who had a decided tendency to be
       always honest when she gave herself time to think about it, 'it's as
       well to leave that alone now, for I couldn't undertake to say after all,
       but it doesn't signify lie down a little!'

       'I have always been strong enough to do what I want to do, and I shall
       be quite well directly,' returned Little Dorrit, with a faint smile.
       'You have overpowered me with gratitude, that's all. If I keep near the
       window for a moment I shall be quite myself.'

       Flora opened a window, sat her in a chair by it, and considerately
       retired to her former place. It was a windy day, and the air stirring
       on Little Dorrit's face soon brightened it. In a very few minutes she
       returned to her basket of work, and her nimble fingers were as nimble as
       ever.

       Quietly pursuing her task, she asked Flora if Mr Clennam had told her
       where she lived? When Flora replied in the negative, Little Dorrit said
       that she understood why he had been so delicate, but that she felt sure
       he would approve of her confiding her secret to Flora, and that
       she would therefore do so now with Flora's permission. Receiving an
       encouraging answer, she condensed the narrative of her life into a few
       scanty words about herself and a glowing eulogy upon her father; and
       Flora took it all in with a natural tenderness that quite understood it,
       and in which there was no incoherence.

       When dinner-time came, Flora drew the arm of her new charge through
       hers, and led her down-stairs, and presented her to the Patriarch and Mr
       Pancks, who were already in the dining-room waiting to begin. (Mr F.'s
               Aunt was, for the time, laid up in ordinary in her chamber.) By those
       gentlemen she was received according to their characters; the Patriarch
       appearing to do her some inestimable service in saying that he was glad
       to see her, glad to see her; and Mr Pancks blowing off his favourite
       sound as a salute.

       In that new presence she would have been bashful enough under any
       circumstances, and particularly under Flora's insisting on her
       drinking a glass of wine and eating of the best that was there; but her
       constraint was greatly increased by Mr Pancks. The demeanour of that
       gentleman at first suggested to her mind that he might be a taker of
       likenesses, so intently did he look at her, and so frequently did he
       glance at the little note-book by his side. Observing that he made no
       sketch, however, and that he talked about business only, she began to
       have suspicions that he represented some creditor of her father's, the
       balance due to whom was noted in that pocket volume. Regarded from this
       point of view Mr Pancks's puffings expressed injury and impatience, and
       each of his louder snorts became a demand for payment.

       But here again she was undeceived by anomalous and incongruous conduct
       on the part of Mr Pancks himself. She had left the table half an hour,
       and was at work alone. Flora had 'gone to lie down' in the next room,
       concurrently with which retirement a smell of something to drink
       had broken out in the house. The Patriarch was fast asleep, with his
       philanthropic mouth open under a yellow pocket-handkerchief in the
       dining-room. At this quiet time, Mr Pancks softly appeared before her,
       urbanely nodding.

       'Find it a little dull, Miss Dorrit?' inquired Pancks in a low voice.

       'No, thank you, sir,' said Little Dorrit.

       'Busy, I see,' observed Mr Pancks, stealing into the room by inches.
       'What are those now, Miss Dorrit?'

       'Handkerchiefs.'

       'Are they, though!' said Pancks. 'I shouldn't have thought it.' Not in
       the least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. 'Perhaps you
       wonder who I am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune-teller.'

       Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad.

       'I belong body and soul to my proprietor,' said Pancks; 'you saw my
       proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the other way,
       sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.'

       Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm. 'I wish
       you'd show me the palm of your hand,' said Pancks. 'I should like to
       have a look at it. Don't let me be troublesome.'

       He was so far troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she
       laid her work in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand with
       her thimble on it.

       'Years of toil, eh?' said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt
       forefinger. 'But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!' looking
       into the lines. 'What's this with bars? It's a College! And what's this
       with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it's a father! And what's this
       with a clarionet? It's an uncle! And what's this in dancing-shoes? It's
       a sister! And what's this straggling about in an idle sort of a way?
       It's a brother! And what's this thinking for 'em all? Why, this is you,
       Miss Dorrit!'

       Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his face, and she
       thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a brighter and
       gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His eyes were on
       her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming or correcting
       the impression was gone.

       'Now, the deuce is in it,' muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her
       hand with his clumsy finger, 'if this isn't me in the corner here! What
       do I want here? What's behind me?'

       He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and
       affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him.

       'Is it any harm?' asked Little Dorrit, smiling.

       'Deuce a bit!' said Pancks. 'What do you think it's worth?'

       'I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.'

       'True,' said Pancks. 'What's it worth? You shall live to see, Miss
       Dorrit.'

       Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his
       prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner;
       and repeated slowly, 'Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live
       to see.'

       She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only
       by his knowing so much about her.

       'Ah! That's it!' said Pancks, pointing at her. 'Miss Dorrit, not that,
       ever!'

       More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to
       him for an explanation of his last words.

       'Not that,' said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation
       of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally
       grotesque. 'Don't do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter
       where. I am nobody. Don't take on to mind me. Don't mention me. Take no
       notice. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?'

       'I hardly know what to say,' returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded.
       'Why?'

       'Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven't told you so
       much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what's behind
       me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it
       agreed, Miss Dorrit?'

       'Agreed that I--am--to--'

       'To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first. Not
       to mind me when I come and go. It's very easy. I am no loss, I am not
       handsome, I am not good company, I am only my proprietors grubber.
       You need do no more than think, "Ah! Pancks the gipsy at his
       fortune-telling--he'll tell the rest of my fortune one day--I shall live
       to know it." Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?'

       'Ye-es,' faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, 'I suppose
       so, while you do no harm.'

       'Good!' Mr Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room, and stooped
       forward. 'Honest creature, woman of capital points, but heedless and
       a loose talker, Miss Dorrit.' With that he rubbed his hands as if the
       interview had been very satisfactory to him, panted away to the door,
       and urbanely nodded himself out again.

       If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious conduct
       on the part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself involved
       in this singular treaty, her perplexity was not diminished by ensuing
       circumstances. Besides that Mr Pancks took every opportunity afforded
       him in Mr Casby's house of significantly glancing at her and snorting
       at her--which was not much, after what he had done already--he began to
       pervade her daily life. She saw him in the street, constantly. When she
       went to Mr Casby's, he was always there. When she went to Mrs Clennam's,
       he came there on any pretence, as if to keep her in his sight. A week
       had not gone by, when she found him to her astonishment in the Lodge one
       night, conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one
       of his familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at
       his ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among
       the visitors at her father's Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with
       a Collegiate friend about the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had
       greatly distinguished himself one evening at the social club that held
       its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing a speech to the members
       of the institution, singing a song, and treating the company to five
       gallons of ale--report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The effect on
       Mr Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an eye-witness of in
       his faithful visits, made an impression on Little Dorrit only second to
       that produced by the phenomena themselves. They seemed to gag and bind
       him. He could only stare, and sometimes weakly mutter that it wouldn't
       be believed down Bleeding Heart Yard that this was Pancks; but he never
       said a word more, or made a sign more, even to Little Dorrit. Mr Pancks
       crowned his mysteries by making himself acquainted with Tip in some
       unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter into the College on that
       gentleman's arm. Throughout he never took any notice of Little Dorrit,
       save once or twice when he happened to come close to her and there
       was no one very near; on which occasions, he said in passing,
       with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement, 'Pancks the
       gipsy--fortune-telling.'

       Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this, but
       keeping her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many heavier
       loads, in her own breast. A change had stolen, and was stealing yet,
       over the patient heart. Every day found her something more retiring
       than the day before. To pass in and out of the prison unnoticed, and
       elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were, for herself, her chief
       desires.

       To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate youth
       and character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could without
       desertion of any duty. There were afternoon times when she was
       unemployed, when visitors dropped in to play a hand at cards with her
       father, when she could be spared and was better away. Then she would
       flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs that led to her room,
       and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did those spikes
       upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron weave itself
       into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while Little Dorrit sat
       there musing. New zig-zags sprung into the cruel pattern sometimes, when
       she saw it through a burst of tears; but beautified or hardened still,
       always over it and under it and through it, she was fain to look in her
       solitude, seeing everything with that ineffaceable brand.

       A garret, and a Marshalsea garret without compromise, was Little
       Dorrit's room. Beautifully kept, it was ugly in itself, and had little
       but cleanliness and air to set it off; for what embellishment she had
       ever been able to buy, had gone to her father's room. Howbeit, for this
       poor place she showed an increasing love; and to sit in it alone became
       her favourite rest.

       Insomuch, that on a certain afternoon during the Pancks mysteries, when
       she was seated at her window, and heard Maggy's well-known step coming
       up the stairs, she was very much disturbed by the apprehension of being
       summoned away. As Maggy's step came higher up and nearer, she trembled
       and faltered; and it was as much as she could do to speak, when Maggy at
       length appeared.

       'Please, Little Mother,' said Maggy, panting for breath, 'you must come
       down and see him. He's here.'

       'Who, Maggy?'

       'Who, o' course Mr Clennam. He's in your father's room, and he says to
       me, Maggy, will you be so kind and go and say it's only me.'

       'I am not very well, Maggy. I had better not go. I am going to lie down.
       See! I lie down now, to ease my head. Say, with my grateful regard, that
       you left me so, or I would have come.'

       'Well, it an't very polite though, Little Mother,' said the staring
       Maggy, 'to turn your face away, neither!'

       Maggy was very susceptible to personal slights, and very ingenious in
       inventing them. 'Putting both your hands afore your face too!' she went
       on. 'If you can't bear the looks of a poor thing, it would be better to
       tell her so at once, and not go and shut her out like that, hurting her
       feelings and breaking her heart at ten year old, poor thing!'

       'It's to ease my head, Maggy.'

       'Well, and if you cry to ease your head, Little Mother, let me cry too.
       Don't go and have all the crying to yourself,' expostulated Maggy, 'that
       an't not being greedy.' And immediately began to blubber.

       It was with some difficulty that she could be induced to go back with
       the excuse; but the promise of being told a story--of old her great
       delight--on condition that she concentrated her faculties upon the
       errand and left her little mistress to herself for an hour longer,
       combined with a misgiving on Maggy's part that she had left her good
       temper at the bottom of the staircase, prevailed. So away she went,
       muttering her message all the way to keep it in her mind, and, at the
       appointed time, came back.

       'He was very sorry, I can tell you,' she announced, 'and wanted to send
       a doctor. And he's coming again to-morrow he is and I don't think he'll
       have a good sleep to-night along o' hearing about your head, Little
       Mother. Oh my! Ain't you been a-crying!'

       'I think I have, a little, Maggy.'

       'A little! Oh!'

       'But it's all over now--all over for good, Maggy. And my head is much
       better and cooler, and I am quite comfortable. I am very glad I did not
       go down.'

       Her great staring child tenderly embraced her; and having smoothed her
       hair, and bathed her forehead and eyes with cold water (offices in which
               her awkward hands became skilful), hugged her again, exulted in her
       brighter looks, and stationed her in her chair by the window. Over
       against this chair, Maggy, with apoplectic exertions that were not
       at all required, dragged the box which was her seat on story-telling
       occasions, sat down upon it, hugged her own knees, and said, with a
       voracious appetite for stories, and with widely-opened eyes:

       'Now, Little Mother, let's have a good 'un!'

       'What shall it be about, Maggy?'

       'Oh, let's have a princess,' said Maggy, 'and let her be a reg'lar one.
       Beyond all belief, you know!'

       Little Dorrit considered for a moment; and with a rather sad smile upon
       her face, which was flushed by the sunset, began:

       'Maggy, there was once upon a time a fine King, and he had everything he
       could wish for, and a great deal more. He had gold and silver, diamonds
       and rubies, riches of every kind. He had palaces, and he had--'

       'Hospitals,' interposed Maggy, still nursing her knees. 'Let him have
       hospitals, because they're so comfortable. Hospitals with lots of
       Chicking.'

       'Yes, he had plenty of them, and he had plenty of everything.'

       'Plenty of baked potatoes, for instance?' said Maggy.

       'Plenty of everything.'

       'Lor!' chuckled Maggy, giving her knees a hug. 'Wasn't it prime!'

       'This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful
       Princess that ever was seen. When she was a child she understood all her
       lessons before her masters taught them to her; and when she was grown
       up, she was the wonder of the world. Now, near the Palace where this
       Princess lived, there was a cottage in which there was a poor little
       tiny woman, who lived all alone by herself.'

       'An old woman,' said Maggy, with an unctuous smack of her lips.

       'No, not an old woman. Quite a young one.'

       'I wonder she warn't afraid,' said Maggy. 'Go on, please.'

       'The Princess passed the cottage nearly every day, and whenever she went
       by in her beautiful carriage, she saw the poor tiny woman spinning at
       her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked
       at her. So, one day she stopped the coachman a little way from the
       cottage, and got out and walked on and peeped in at the door, and there,
       as usual, was the tiny woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at
       the Princess, and the Princess looked at her.'

       'Like trying to stare one another out,' said Maggy. 'Please go on,
       Little Mother.'

       'The Princess was such a wonderful Princess that she had the power of
       knowing secrets, and she said to the tiny woman, Why do you keep it
       there? This showed her directly that the Princess knew why she lived
       all alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she kneeled down at
       the Princess's feet, and asked her never to betray her. So the Princess
       said, I never will betray you. Let me see it. So the tiny woman closed
       the shutter of the cottage window and fastened the door, and trembling
       from head to foot for fear that any one should suspect her, opened a
       very secret place and showed the Princess a shadow.'

       'Lor!' said Maggy.

       'It was the shadow of Some one who had gone by long before: of Some one
       who had gone on far away quite out of reach, never, never to come back.
       It was bright to look at; and when the tiny woman showed it to the
       Princess, she was proud of it with all her heart, as a great, great
       treasure. When the Princess had considered it a little while, she said
       to the tiny woman, And you keep watch over this every day? And she cast
       down her eyes, and whispered, Yes. Then the Princess said, Remind me
       why. To which the other replied, that no one so good and kind had ever
       passed that way, and that was why in the beginning. She said, too, that
       nobody missed it, that nobody was the worse for it, that Some one had
       gone on, to those who were expecting him--'

       'Some one was a man then?' interposed Maggy.

       Little Dorrit timidly said Yes, she believed so; and resumed:

       '--Had gone on to those who were expecting him, and that this
       remembrance was stolen or kept back from nobody. The Princess made
       answer, Ah! But when the cottager died it would be discovered there. The
       tiny woman told her No; when that time came, it would sink quietly into
       her own grave, and would never be found.'

       'Well, to be sure!' said Maggy. 'Go on, please.'

       'The Princess was very much astonished to hear this, as you may suppose,
       Maggy.'

       ('And well she might be,' said Maggy.)

       'So she resolved to watch the tiny woman, and see what came of it. Every
       day she drove in her beautiful carriage by the cottage-door, and there
       she saw the tiny woman always alone by herself spinning at her wheel,
       and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. At
       last one day the wheel was still, and the tiny woman was not to be seen.
       When the Princess made inquiries why the wheel had stopped, and where
       the tiny woman was, she was informed that the wheel had stopped because
       there was nobody to turn it, the tiny woman being dead.'

       ('They ought to have took her to the Hospital,' said Maggy, and then
        she'd have got over it.')

       'The Princess, after crying a very little for the loss of the tiny
       woman, dried her eyes and got out of her carriage at the place where
       she had stopped it before, and went to the cottage and peeped in at the
       door. There was nobody to look at her now, and nobody for her to look
       at, so she went in at once to search for the treasured shadow. But there
       was no sign of it to be found anywhere; and then she knew that the tiny
       woman had told her the truth, and that it would never give anybody any
       trouble, and that it had sunk quietly into her own grave, and that she
       and it were at rest together.

       'That's all, Maggy.'

       The sunset flush was so bright on Little Dorrit's face when she came
       thus to the end of her story, that she interposed her hand to shade it.

       'Had she got to be old?' Maggy asked.

       'The tiny woman?'

       'Ah!'

       'I don't know,' said Little Dorrit. 'But it would have been just the
       same if she had been ever so old.'

       'Would it raly!' said Maggy. 'Well, I suppose it would though.' And sat
       staring and ruminating.

       She sat so long with her eyes wide open, that at length Little Dorrit,
       to entice her from her box, rose and looked out of window. As she
       glanced down into the yard, she saw Pancks come in and leer up with the
       corner of his eye as he went by.

       'Who's he, Little Mother?' said Maggy. She had joined her at the window
       and was leaning on her shoulder. 'I see him come in and out often.'

       'I have heard him called a fortune-teller,' said Little Dorrit. 'But I
       doubt if he could tell many people even their past or present fortunes.'

       'Couldn't have told the Princess hers?' said Maggy.

       Little Dorrit, looking musingly down into the dark valley of the prison,
       shook her head.

       'Nor the tiny woman hers?' said Maggy.

       'No,' said Little Dorrit, with the sunset very bright upon her. 'But let
       us come away from the window.'

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

completion: Plornish tells Little Dorrit that she's got a new gig at Flora's place. Little Dorrit is psyched, because a little extra coin is always welcome around the Dorrit household of denial. At the Casby's, Flora is super-duper nice. She makes Little Dorrit eat some food, which immediately marks her as some kind of saint in this novel of horrible, horrible people. But being Flora, she also starts in on the whole doomed-love nonsense between herself and Arthur. Flora tells the whole story of their early love affair, but also kind of makes it sound like now that Mr. F is dead and Flora is newly available, Arthur is going to beat down her door any minute. Little Dorrit listens, doesn't realize that it's all nonsense, and starts to feel sick. But she is nothing if not iron-willed, so she gets it together and starts sewing her handkerchiefs. After a couple of hours, Pancks shows up and starts acting all mysterious and bizarre around Little Dorrit. He tells her that he is a fortune-teller and asks to read her palm. On her palm, he sees all the members of her family, and then himself, doing something. He won't say what. Little Dorrit is obviously weirded out by all of this, but Pancks seems like a nice guy. He tells her not to pay any special attention to him and that at some point he will reveal the rest of her fortune to her. Um, OK. Then he starts popping up everywhere in Little Dorrit's life - at the Clennams' house, at the Casbys' obviously, and even in the Marshalsea. Some time later, Arthur comes to the Marshalsea and sends Maggie to get Little Dorrit. But Little Dorrit is crying in her room and doesn't come down. Instead, she tells Maggie a story. Once upon a time, there was a king who had everything. He had a daughter who was perfect and beautiful. Meanwhile, near the palace lived a tiny young woman who kept a secret shadow hidden in her hut. One day she showed the shadow to the princess, then told the princess that she would keep it hidden forever until her death, at which point it would disappear. And so it happened. The end. Boy, they sure don't make fairy tales like they used to! But Maggie seems into it. Oh, and, guess what, folks? The fairy tale is symbolic! Yes, it may surprise you to learn that it actually is meant to mean something. It's a little ambiguous, but Shmoop is guessing that the king is Casby, the princess is Flora, the young tiny woman is Little Dorrit, and the shadow is... um... some feelings. We'll try to avoid spoilers.