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O' course I came to look arter you, my darlin', replied Mr. Weller for once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity.

Charles Dickens

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Charles Dickens
Age: 58 †
Born: 1812
Born: February 7
Died: 1870
Died: June 9
Author
Editor
Journalist
Novelist
Playwright
Social Critic
Writer
Landport
Hampshire
Dickens
C.Dickens
Charles John Huffam Dickens
Boz
Love
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Passion
Came
Better
Darlin
Look
Permitting
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Veracity

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Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth, and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home!
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The clouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed, at one time wholly obscuring her, at another, suffering her to burst forth in full splendor and shed her light on all the objects around anon, driving over her again, with increased velocity, and shrouding everything in darkness.
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He describes it as a large apartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions.
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I know quite enough of myself, said Bella, with a charming air of being inclined to give herself up as a bad job, and I don't improve upon acquaintance...
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The broken heart. You think you will die, but you just keep living, day after day after terrible day.
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The worst class of sum worked in the every-day world is cyphered by the diseased arithmeticians who are always in the rule of Subtraction as to the merits and successes of others, and never in Addition as to their own.
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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.
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I think it must somewhere be written that the virtues of mothers shall be visited on their children, as well as the sins of their fathers.
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She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' sir.
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It's nothing, returned Mrs Chick. It's merely change of weather. We must expect change.
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And I am bored to death with it. Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with myself.
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That sort of half sigh, which, accompanied by two or three slight nods of the head, is pity's small change in general society.
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I revere the memory of Mr. F. as an estimable man and most indulgent husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint at any little delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort.
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Never, said my aunt, be mean in anything never be false never be cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful of you.
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It was a harder day's journey than yesterday's, for there were long and weary hills to climb and in journeys, as in life, it is a great deal easier to go down hill than up. However, they kept on, with unabated perseverance, and the hill has not yet lifted its face to heaven that perseverance will not gain the summit of at last.
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At last, however, he began to think -- as you or I would have thought at first for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too . . .
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At the great iron gate of the churchyard he stopped and looked in. He looked up at the high tower spectrally resisting the wind, and he looked round at the white tombstones, like enough to the dead in their winding-sheets, and he counted the nine tolls of the clock-bell.
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The air came laden with the fragrance it caught upon its way, and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed forth their drowsy satisfaction as they floated by.
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It was a foggy day in London, and the fog was heavy and dark. Animate London, with smarting eyes and irritated lungs, was blinking, wheezing, and choking inanimate London was a sooty spectre, divided in purpose between being visible and invisible, and so being wholly neither.
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Now, I return to this young fellow. And the communication I have got to make is, that he has great expectations.
Charles Dickens