singer as
Father, and wipe her eyes.

If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the
noble Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be
presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs Plornish
could not have handed him with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart
Yard. 'Here's Father,' she would say, presenting him to a neighbour.
'Father will soon be home with us for good, now. Ain't Father looking
well? Father's a sweeter singer than ever; you'd never have forgotten
it, if you'd aheard him just now.'

As to Mr Plornish, he had married these articles of belief in marrying
Mr Nandy's daughter, and only wondered how it was that so gifted an
old gentleman had not made a fortune. This he attributed, after much
reflection, to his musical genius not having been scientifically
developed in his youth. 'For why,' argued Mr Plornish, 'why go a-binding
music when you've got it in yourself? That's where it is, I consider.'

Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a certain
sumptuous way--an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring
audience to witness that he really could not help being more free
with this old fellow than they might have expected, on account of his
simplicity and poverty--was mightily good to him. Old Nandy had
been several times to the Marshalsea College, communicating with his
son-in-law during his short durance there; and had happily acquired to
himself, and had by degrees and in course of time much improved, the
patronage of the Father of that national institution.

Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man
held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats
and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying
district where the tenantry were in a primitive state.

It seemed as if there were moments when he could by no means have
sworn but that the old man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been
meritoriously faithful. When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually
as his old pensioner. He had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and
in commenting on his decayed condition after he was gone. It appeared
to him amazing that he could hold up his head at all, poor creature. 'In
the Workhouse, sir, the Union; no privacy, no visitors, no station, no
respect, no speciality. Most deplorable!'

It was Old Nandy's birthday, and they let him out. He said nothi