s and Clennam walked up and down together for a few minutes more
without speaking, until at length the former broke silence.

'Arthur,' said he, using that familiar address for the first time in
their communication, 'do you remember my telling you, as we walked up
and down one hot morning, looking over the harbour at Marseilles, that
Pet's baby sister who was dead seemed to Mother and me to have grown as
she had grown, and changed as she had changed?'

'Very well.'

'You remember my saying that our thoughts had never been able to
separate those twin sisters, and that, in our fancy, whatever Pet was,
the other was?'

'Yes, very well.'

'Arthur,' said Mr Meagles, much subdued, 'I carry that fancy further
to-night. I feel to-night, my dear fellow, as if you had loved my dead
child very tenderly, and had lost her when she was like what Pet is
now.'

'Thank you!' murmured Clennam, 'thank you!' And pressed his hand.

'Will you come in?' said Mr Meagles, presently.

'In a little while.'

Mr Meagles fell away, and he was left alone. When he had walked on the
river's brink in the peaceful moonlight for some half an hour, he put
his hand in his breast and tenderly took out the handful of roses.
Perhaps he put them to his heart, perhaps he put them to his lips, but
certainly he bent down on the shore and gently launched them on the
flowing river. Pale and unreal in the moonlight, the river floated them
away. The lights were bright within doors when he entered, and the
faces on which they shone, his own face not excepted, were soon quietly
cheerful. They talked of many subjects (his partner never had had such a
ready store to draw upon for the beguiling of the time), and so to
bed, and to sleep. While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight,
floated away upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were
in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal seas.

CHAPTER 29. Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming

The house in the city preserved its heavy dulness through all these
transactions, and the invalid within it turned the same unvarying
round of life. Morning, noon, and night, morning, noon, and night, each
recurring with its accompanying monotony, always the same reluctant
return of the same sequences of machinery, like a dragging piece of
clockwork.

The wheeled chair had its associated remembrances and reveries, one may
suppose, as every place that is made the station of a human