ound and round inside
his head. The housemaid wishes it wasn't wicked to wish that one was
dead.

There is a general delusion likewise, in these lower regions, on the
subject of time; everybody conceiving that it ought to be, at the
earliest, ten o'clock at night, whereas it is not yet three in the
afternoon. A shadowy idea of wickedness committed, haunts every
individual in the party; and each one secretly thinks the other a
companion in guilt, whom it would be agreeable to avoid. No man or woman
has the hardihood to hint at the projected visit to the play. Anyone
reviving the notion of the ball, would be scouted as a malignant idiot.

Mrs Skewton sleeps upstairs, two hours afterwards, and naps are not
yet over in the kitchen. The hatchments in the dining-room look down
on crumbs, dirty plates, spillings of wine, half-thawed ice, stale
discoloured heel-taps, scraps of lobster, drumsticks of fowls, and
pensive jellies, gradually resolving themselves into a lukewarm gummy
soup. The marriage is, by this time, almost as denuded of its show and
garnish as the breakfast. Mr Dombey's servants moralise so much about
it, and are so repentant over their early tea, at home, that by eight
o'clock or so, they settle down into confirmed seriousness; and Mr
Perch, arriving at that time from the City, fresh and jocular, with
a white waistcoat and a comic song, ready to spend the evening, and
prepared for any amount of dissipation, is amazed to find himself coldly
received, and Mrs Perch but poorly, and to have the pleasing duty of
escorting that lady home by the next omnibus.

Night closes in. Florence, having rambled through the handsome house,
from room to room, seeks her own chamber, where the care of Edith has
surrounded her with luxuries and comforts; and divesting herself of her
handsome dress, puts on her old simple mourning for dear Paul, and sits
down to read, with Diogenes winking and blinking on the ground beside
her. But Florence cannot read tonight. The house seems strange and new,
and there are loud echoes in it. There is a shadow on her heart: she
knows not why or what: but it is heavy. Florence shuts her book, and
gruff Diogenes, who takes that for a signal, puts his paws upon her lap,
and rubs his ears against her caressing hands. But Florence cannot see
him plainly, in a little time, for there is a mist between her eyes
and him, and her dead brother and dead mother shine in it like angels.
Walter, too, poor wander