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Chapter 14. Little Dorrit’s Party

           Andthoughtheyweren’tbornintheMarshalseaPrison,theymighthavebeen,ifIhadbeen,inmywaysofcarryingon,ofyourfather’sbreed.Stopabit.Imustputsomethingunderthecushionforyourhead.Here’saburialvolume,justthething!WehavegotMrsBanghaminthisbook.Butwhatmakesthesebooksinterestingtomostpeopleis—notwho’sin‘em,butwhoisn’t—who’scoming,youknow,andwhen.That’stheinterestingquestion.’

           Commendinglylookingbackatthepillowhehadimprovised,heleftthemtotheirhour’srepose.Maggywassnoringalready,andLittleDorritwassoonfastasleepwithherheadrestingonthatsealedbookofFate,untroubledbyitsmysteriousblankleaves.

           ThiswasLittleDorrit’sparty.Theshame,desertion,wretchedness,andexposureofthegreatcapital;thewet,thecold,theslowhours,andtheswiftcloudsofthedismalnight.ThiswasthepartyfromwhichLittleDorritwenthome,jaded,inthefirstgreymistofarainymorning.

           

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