Sublime

a man like Mr. Peggotty was not a bad person to have on board if anything did happen. Nothing happened, however, worse than morning.

So, Twemlow goes home to Duke Street, St James's, to take a plate of mutton broth with a chop in it, and a look at the marriage-service, in order that he may cut in at the right place to-morrow; and he is low, and feels it dull over the livery stable-yard, and is distinctly aware of a dint in his heart, made by the most adorable of the adorable bri

“And . . . the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners of a pothouse; and . . . and even admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman . . . what was there in that to be proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that . . . and all the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things . 

Because the ancient instinct and humour of humanity have always told them, under whatever conventions, that the conventions of complex cities were less really healthy and happy than the customs of the countryside.

The man of this school goes first to a political meeting, where he complains that savages are treated as if they were beasts; then he takes his hat and umbrella and goes on to a scientific meeting, where he proves that they practically are beasts.

I had never scorned a woman myself, but Pongo Twistleton once scorned an aunt of his, flatly refusing to meet her son Gerald at Paddington and give him lunch and see him off to school at Waterloo, and he never heard the end of it.

His face was long, and creased with deep lines of intolerance, and his lean, vulpine features were crowned incongruously by a green Tyrolean hat.

Assistant: . . . I beg your pardon? Mr Pest: No, Edmund Wells. Assistant: . . . I think you’ll find Charles Dickens wrote David Copperfield, sir. Mr Pest: No, Charles Dickens wrote David Copperfield with two ‘p’s. This is David Coperfield with one ‘p’ by Edmund Wells. Assistant: (a little sharply) Well, in that case we don’t have it. Mr Pest: Funny