The Last of the Patriarchs had been so seized by assault, and required
so much room to catch an idea in, an so much more room to turn it in,
that he had not a word to offer in reply. He appeared to be meditating
some Patriarchal way out of his delicate position, when Mr Pancks, once
more suddenly applying the trigger to his hat, shot it off again with
his former dexterity. On the preceding occasion, one or two of the
Bleeding Heart Yarders had obsequiously picked it up and handed it to
its owner; but Mr Pancks had now so far impressed his audience, that the
Patriarch had to turn and stoop for it himself.

Quick as lightning, Mr Pancks, who, for some moments, had had his right
hand in his coat pocket, whipped out a pair of shears, swooped upon the
Patriarch behind, and snipped off short the sacred locks that flowed
upon his shoulders. In a paroxysm of animosity and rapidity, Mr Pancks
then caught the broad-brimmed hat out of the astounded Patriarch's hand,
cut it down into a mere stewpan, and fixed it on the Patriarch's head.

Before the frightful results of this desperate action, Mr Pancks himself
recoiled in consternation. A bare-polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed
lumbering personage stood staring at him, not in the least impressive,
not in the least venerable, who seemed to have started out of the
earth to ask what was become of Casby. After staring at this phantom in
return, in silent awe, Mr Pancks threw down his shears, and fled for a
place of hiding, where he might lie sheltered from the consequences of
his crime. Mr Pancks deemed it prudent to use all possible despatch in
making off, though he was pursued by nothing but the sound of laughter
in Bleeding Heart Yard, rippling through the air and making it ring
again.

CHAPTER 33. Going!

The changes of a fevered room are slow and fluctuating; but the changes
of the fevered world are rapid and irrevocable.

It was Little Dorrit's lot to wait upon both kinds of change. The
Marshalsea walls, during a portion of every day, again embraced her in
their shadows as their child, while she thought for Clennam, worked for
him, watched him, and only left him, still to devote her utmost love and
care to him. Her part in the life outside the gate urged its pressing
claims upon her too, and her patience untiringly responded to them.
Here was Fanny, proud, fitful, whimsical, further advanced in that
disqualified state for going into society which had so much fretted