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My aunt and I, when we were left alone, talked far into the night. How the emigrants never wrote home, otherwise than cheerfully and hopefully; how Mr. Micawber had actually remitted divers small sums
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My aunt and I, when we were left alone, talked far into the night. How the emigrants never wrote home, otherwise than cheerfully and hopefully; how Mr. Micawber had actually remitted divers small sums
And now my written story ends. I look back, once more—for the last time—before I close these leaves. I see myself, wit…
What I have purposed to record is nearly finished; but there is yet an incident conspicuous in my memory, on which it o…
The year came round to Christmas-time, and I had been at home above two months. I had seen Agnes frequently. However lo…
For a time—at all events until my book should be completed, which would be the work of several months—I took up my abod…
I landed in London on a wintry autumn evening. It was dark and raining, and I saw more fog and mud in a minute than I h…
It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, man…
One thing more, I had to do, before yielding myself to the shock of these emotions. It was, to conceal what had occurre…
No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together, in that hour which I so little deemed to be our parti…
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