It Is, As Mr. Rokesmith Says, A

That, They Never Could Lay Their Heads Upon Their Pillows; That, They Never Could Tolerate The Idea Of Their Wives Laying Their Heads Upon Their Pillows; That, They Never Could Endure The Notion Of Their Children Laying Their Heads Upon Their Pillows; In Short, That There Never More Could Be, For Them Or Theirs, Any Laying Of Heads Upon Pillows At All, Unless The Prisoner's Head Was Taken Off.

Dignity, And Even Holiness Too, Sometimes, Are More Questions Of Coat And Waistcoat Than Some People Imagine.

Marley Was Dead, To Begin With. There Is No Doubt Whatever About That. The Register Of His Burial Was Signed By The Clergyman, The Clerk, The Undertaker, And The Chief Mourner. Scrooge Signed It. And Scrooge's Name Was Good Upon 'change For Anything He Chose To Put His Hand To. Old Marley Was As Dead As A Door-nail.

I Made A Compact With Myself That In My Person Literature Should Stand By Itself, Of Itself, And For Itself.

"there Is No Deception Now, Mr. Weller. Tears," Said Job, With A Look Of Momentary Slyness, "tears Are Not The Only Proofs Of Distress, Nor The Best Ones."