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Mrs. Boffin and me, ma'am, are plain people, and we don't want to pretend to anything, nor yet to go round and round at anything because there's always a straight way to everything.

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
People
Pretend
Round
Rounds
Straight
Anything
Everything
Way
Always
Plain

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Ven you read the speeches in the papers, and see as vun gen'lman says of another, 'the Honourable member, if he vill allow me to call him so' you vill understand, sir, that that means, 'if he vill allow me to keep up that 'ere pleasant and uniwersal fiction.'
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... Treachery don't come natural to beaming youth but trust and pity, love and constancy,-they do, thank God!
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What lawsuits grow out of the graves of rich men, every day sowing perjury, hatred, and lies among near kindred, where there should be nothing but love!
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And this is the eternal law. For, Evil often stops short at istelf and dies with the doer of it! but Good, never.
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I do not know the American gentleman, God forgive me for putting two such words together.
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Cheerfulness and contentment are great beautifiers, and are famous preservers of good looks.
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... when he saw her sitting there all alone, so young, and good, and beautiful, and kind to him and heard her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such a golden link between him and all his life's love and happiness, rising out of the silence he turned his face away, and hid his tears.
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The American woman is a monstrosity.
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Friendless I can never be, for all mankind are my kindred, and I am on ill terms with no one member of my great family.
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Then I'm sorry to say, I've eat your pie.
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I fear your kind and open communication, which has rendered me more painfully conscious of my own defects, has not improved me, sighed Kate.
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Old Marley was dead as a doornail... The wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile.
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But the words she spoke of Mrs Harris, lambs could not forgive ... nor worms forget.
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It is a silent, shady place, with a paved courtyard so full of echoes, that sometimes I am tempted to believe that faint responses to the noises of old times linger there yet, and that these ghosts of sound haunt my footsteps as I pace it up and down.
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The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious with hints of stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers, out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting, perhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as the unfathomable waters.
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The town was glad with morning light places that had shown ugly and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile and sparkling sunbeams dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before sleepers’ eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows of the night.
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