God Bless Us Every One! Said Tiny

The Unqualified Truth Is, That When I Loved Estella With The Love Of A Man, I Loved Her Simply Because I Found Her Irresistible. Once For All; I Knew To My Sorrow, Often And Often, If Not Always, That I Loved Her Against Reason, Against Promise, Against Peace, Against Hope, Against Happiness, Against All Discouragement That Could Be. Once For All; I Love Her None The Less Because I Knew It, And It Had No More Influence In Restraining Me, Than If I Had Devoutly Believed Her To Be Human Perfection.

Procrastination Is The Thief Of Time, Collar Him.

I See That I Hold A Sanctuary In Their Hearts, And In The Hearts Of Their Descendants, Generations Hence. I See Her, An Old Woman, Weeping For Me On The Anniversary Of This Day. I See Her And Her Husband, Their Course Done, Lying Side By Side In Their Last Earthly Bed, And I Know That Each Was Not More Honoured And Held Sacred In The Other's Soul, Than I Was In The Souls Of Both.

Mr. Pickwick Took A Seat And The Paper, But Instead Of Reading The Latter, Peeped Over The Top Of It, And Took A Survey Of The Man Of Business, Who Was An Elderly, Pimply-faced, Vegetable-diet Sort Of Man, In A Black Coat, Dark Mixture Trousers, And Small Black Gaiters; A Kind Of Being Who Seemed To Be An Essential Part Of The Desk At Which He Was Writing, And To Have As Much Thought Or Sentiment.

Change Begets Change. Nothing Propagates So Fast. If A Man Habituated To A Narrow Circle Of Cares And Pleasures, Out Of Which He Seldom Travels, Step Beyond It, Though For Never So Brief A Space, His Departure From The Monotonous Scene On Which He Has Been An Actor Of Importance Would Seem To Be The Signal For Instant Confusion. The Mine Which Time Has Slowly Dug Beneath Familiar Objects Is Sprung In An Instant; And What Was Rock Before, Becomes But Sand And Dust.