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Charles Dickens. Dombey and Son (chapter 31-62)
Dawn with its passionless blank face, steals shivering to the church
beneath which lies the dust of little Paul and his mother, and looks in at
the windows. It is cold and dark. Night crouches yet, upon the pavement, and
broods, sombre and heavy, in nooks and corners of the building. The
steeple-clock, perched up above the houses, emerging from beneath another of
the countless ripples in the tide of time that regularly roll and break on
the eternal shore, is greyly visible, like a stone beacon, recording how the
sea flows on; but within doors, dawn, at first, can only peep at night, and
see that it is there.
Hovering feebly round the church, and looking in, dawn moans and weeps
for its short reign, and its tears trickle on the window-glass, and the
trees against the church-wall bow their heads, and wring their many hands in
sympathy. Night, growing pale before it, gradually fades out of the church,
but lingers in the vaults below, and sits upon the coffins. And now comes
bright day, burnishing the steeple-clock, and reddening the spire, and
drying up the tears of dawn, and stifling its complaining; and the dawn,
following the night, and chasing it from its last refuge, shrinks into the
vaults itself and hides, with a frightened face, among the dead, until night
returns, refreshed, to drive it out.
And now, the mice, who have been busier with the prayer-books than
their proper owners, and with the hassocks, more worn by their little teeth
than by human knees, hide their bright eyes in their holes, and gather close
together in affright at the resounding clashing of the church-door. For the
beadle, that man of power, comes early this morning with the sexton; and Mrs
Miff, the wheezy little pew-opener - a mighty dry old lady, sparely dressed,
with not an inch of fulness anywhere about her - is also here, and has been
waiting at the church-gate half-an-hour, as her place is, for the beadle.
A vinegary face has Mrs Miff, and a mortified bonnet, and eke a thirsty
soul for sixpences and shillings. Beckoning to stray people to come into
pews, has given Mrs Miff an air of mystery; and there is reservation in the
eye of Mrs Miff, as always knowing of a softer seat, but having her
suspicions of the fee. There is no such fact as Mr Miff, nor has there been,
these twenty years, and Mrs Miff would rather not allude to him. He held
some bad opinions, it would seem, about free seats; and though Mrs Miff
hopes he may be gone upwards, she couldn't positively undertake to say so.
Busy is Mrs Miff this morning at the church-door, beating and dusting
the altar-cloth, the carpet, and the cushions; and much has Mrs Miff to say,
about the wedding they are going to have. Mrs Miff is told, that the new
furniture and alterations in the house cost full five thousand pound if they
cost a penny; and Mrs Miff has heard, upon the best authority, that the lady
hasn't got a sixpence wherewithal to bless herself. Mrs Miff remembers, like
wise, as if it had happened yesterday, the first wife's funeral, and then
the christening, and then the other funeral; and Mrs Miff says, by-the-bye
she'll soap-and-water that 'ere tablet presently, against the company
arrive. Mr Sownds the Beadle, who is sitting in the sun upon the church
steps all this time (and seldom does anything else, except, in cold weather,
sitting by the fire), approves of Mrs Miff's discourse, and asks if Mrs Miff
has heard it said, that the lady is uncommon handsome? The information Mrs
Miff has received, being of this nature, Mr Sownds the Beadle, who, though
orthodox and corpulent, is still an admirer of female beauty, observes, with
unction, yes, he hears she is a spanker - an expression that seems somewhat
forcible to Mrs Miff, or would, from any lips but those of Mr Sownds the
In Mr Dombey's house, at this same time, there is great stir and
bustle, more especially among the women: not one of whom has had a wink of
sleep since four o'clock, and all of whom were fully dressed before six. Mr
Towlinson is an object of greater consideration than usual to the housemaid,
and the cook says at breakfast time that one wedding makes many, which the
housemaid can't believe, and don't think true at all. Mr Towlinson reserves
his sentiments on this question; being rendered something gloomy by the
engagement of a foreigner with whiskers (Mr Towlinson is whiskerless
himself), who has been hired to accompany the happy pair to Paris, and who
is busy packing the new chariot. In respect of this personage, Mr Towlinson
admits, presently, that he never knew of any good that ever come of
foreigners; and being charged by the ladies with prejudice, says, look at
Bonaparte who was at the head of 'em, and see what he was always up to!
Which the housemaid says is very true.
The pastry-cook is hard at work in the funereal room in Brook Street,
and the very tall young men are busy looking on. One of the very tall young
men already smells of sherry, and his eyes have a tendency to become fixed
in his head, and to stare at objects without seeing them. The very tall
young man is conscious of this failing in himself; and informs his comrade
that it's his 'exciseman.' The very tall young man would say excitement, but
his speech is hazy.
The men who play the bells have got scent of the marriage; and the
marrow-bones and cleavers too; and a brass band too. The first, are
practising in a back settlement near Battlebridge; the second, put
themselves in communication, through their chief, with Mr Towlinson, to whom
they offer terms to be bought off; and the third, in the person of an artful
trombone, lurks and dodges round the corner, waiting for some traitor
tradesman to reveal the place and hour of breakfast, for a bribe.
Expectation and excitement extend further yet, and take a wider range. From
Balls Pond, Mr Perch brings Mrs Perch to spend the day with Mr Dombey's
servants, and accompany them, surreptitiously, to see the wedding. In Mr
Toots's lodgings, Mr Toots attires himself as if he were at least the
Bridegroom; determined to behold the spectacle in splendour from a secret
corner of the gallery, and thither to convey the Chicken: for it is Mr
Toots's desperate intent to point out Florence to the Chicken, then and
there, and openly to say, 'Now, Chicken, I will not deceive you any longer;
the friend I have sometimes mentioned to you is myself; Miss Dombey is the
object of my passion; what are your opinions, Chicken, in this state of
things, and what, on the spot, do you advise? The so-much-to-be-astonished
Chicken, in the meanwhile, dips his beak into a tankard of strong beer, in
Mr Toots's kitchen, and pecks up two pounds of beefsteaks. In Princess's
Place, Miss Tox is up and doing; for she too, though in sore distress, is
resolved to put a shilling in the hands of Mrs Miff, and see the ceremony
which has a cruel fascination for her, from some lonely corner. The quarters
of the wooden Midshipman are all alive; for Captain Cuttle, in his
ankle-jacks and with a huge shirt-collar, is seated at his breakfast,
listening to Rob the Grinder as he reads the marriage service to him
beforehand, under orders, to the end that the Captain may perfectly
understand the solemnity he is about to witness: for which purpose, the
Captain gravely lays injunctions on his chaplain, from time to time, to 'put
about,' or to 'overhaul that 'ere article again,' or to stick to his own
duty, and leave the Amens to him, the Captain; one of which he repeats,
whenever a pause is made by Rob the Grinder, with sonorous satisfaction.
Besides all this, and much more, twenty nursery-maids in Mr Dombey's
street alone, have promised twenty families of little women, whose
instinctive interest in nuptials dates from their cradles, that they shall
go and see the marriage. Truly, Mr Sownds the Beadle has good reason to feel
himself in office, as he suns his portly figure on the church steps, waiting
for the marriage hour. Truly, Mrs Miff has cause to pounce on an unlucky
dwarf child, with a giant baby, who peeps in at the porch, and drive her
forth with indignation!
Cousin Feenix has come over from abroad, expressly to attend the
marriage. Cousin Feenix was a man about town, forty years ago; but he is
still so juvenile in figure and in manner, and so well got up, that
strangers are amazed when they discover latent wrinkles in his lordship's
face, and crows' feet in his eyes: and first observe him, not exactly
certain when he walks across a room, of going quite straight to where he
wants to go. But Cousin Feenix, getting up at half-past seven o'clock or so,
is quite another thing from Cousin Feenix got up; and very dim, indeed, he
looks, while being shaved at Long's Hotel, in Bond Street.
Mr Dombey leaves his dressing-room, amidst a general whisking away of
the women on the staircase, who disperse in all directions, with a great
rustling of skirts, except Mrs Perch, who, being (but that she always is) in
an interesting situation, is not nimble, and is obliged to face him, and is
ready to sink with confusion as she curtesys; - may Heaven avert all evil
consequences from the house of Perch! Mr Dombey walks up to the
drawing-room, to bide his time. Gorgeous are Mr Dombey's new blue coat,
fawn-coloured pantaloons, and lilac waistcoat; and a whisper goes about the
house, that Mr Dombey's hair is curled.
A double knock announces the arrival of the Major, who is gorgeous too,
and wears a whole geranium in his button-hole, and has his hair curled tight
and crisp, as well the Native knows.
'Dombey!' says the Major, putting out both hands, 'how are you?'
'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'how are You?'
'By Jove, Sir,' says the Major, 'Joey B. is in such case this morning,
Sir,' - and here he hits himself hard upon the breast - 'In such case this
morning, Sir, that, damme, Dombey, he has half a mind to make a double
marriage of it, Sir, and take the mother.'
Mr Dombey smiles; but faintly, even for him; for Mr Dombey feels that
he is going to be related to the mother, and that, under those
circumstances, she is not to be joked about.
'Dombey,' says the Major, seeing this, 'I give you joy. I congratulate
you, Dombey. By the Lord, Sir,' says the Major, 'you are more to be envied,
this day, than any man in England!'
Here again Mr Dombey's assent is qualified; because he is going to
confer a great distinction on a lady; and, no doubt, she is to be envied
'As to Edith Granger, Sir,' pursues the Major, 'there is not a woman in
all Europe but might - and would, Sir, you will allow Bagstock to add - and
would- give her ears, and her earrings, too, to be in Edith Granger's
'You are good enough to say so, Major,' says Mr Dombey.
'Dombey,' returns the Major, 'you know it. Let us have no false
delicacy. You know it. Do you know it, or do you not, Dombey?' says the
Major, almost in a passion.
'Oh, really, Major - '
'Damme, Sir,' retorts the Major, 'do you know that fact, or do you not?
Dombey! Is old Joe your friend? Are we on that footing of unreserved
intimacy, Dombey, that may justify a man - a blunt old Joseph B., Sir - in
speaking out; or am I to take open order, Dombey, and to keep my distance,
and to stand on forms?'
'My dear Major Bagstock,' says Mr Dombey, with a gratified air, 'you
are quite warm.'
'By Gad, Sir,' says the Major, 'I am warm. Joseph B. does not deny it,
Dombey. He is warm. This is an occasion, Sir, that calls forth all the
honest sympathies remaining in an old, infernal, battered, used-up,
invalided, J. B. carcase. And I tell you what, Dombey - at such a time a man
must blurt out what he feels, or put a muzzle on; and Joseph Bagstock tells
you to your face, Dombey, as he tells his club behind your back, that he
never will be muzzled when Paul Dombey is in question. Now, damme, Sir,'
concludes the Major, with great firmness, 'what do you make of that?'
'Major,' says Mr Dombey, 'I assure you that I am really obliged to you.
I had no idea of checking your too partial friendship.'
'Not too partial, Sir!' exclaims the choleric Major. 'Dombey, I deny
'Your friendship I will say then,' pursues Mr Dombey, 'on any account.
Nor can I forget, Major, on such an occasion as the present, how much I am
indebted to it.'
'Dombey,' says the Major, with appropriate action, 'that is the hand of
Joseph Bagstock: of plain old Joey B., Sir, if you like that better! That is
the hand, of which His Royal Highness the late Duke of York, did me the
honour to observe, Sir, to His Royal Highness the late Duke of Kent, that it
was the hand of Josh: a rough and tough, and possibly an up-to-snuff, old
vagabond. Dombey, may the present moment be the least unhappy of our lives.
God bless you!'
Now enters Mr Carker, gorgeous likewise, and smiling like a
wedding-guest indeed. He can scarcely let Mr Dombey's hand go, he is so
congratulatory; and he shakes the Major's hand so heartily at the same time,
that his voice shakes too, in accord with his arms, as it comes sliding from
between his teeth.
'The very day is auspicious,' says Mr Carker. 'The brightest and most
genial weather! I hope I am not a moment late?'
'Punctual to your time, Sir,' says the Major.
'I am rejoiced, I am sure,' says Mr Carker. 'I was afraid I might be a
few seconds after the appointed time, for I was delayed by a procession of
waggons; and I took the liberty of riding round to Brook Street' - this to
Mr Dombey - 'to leave a few poor rarities of flowers for Mrs Dombey. A man
in my position, and so distinguished as to be invited here, is proud to
offer some homage in acknowledgment of his vassalage: and as I have no doubt
Mrs Dombey is overwhelmed with what is costly and magnificent;' with a
strange glance at his patron; 'I hope the very poverty of my offering, may
find favour for it.'
'Mrs Dombey, that is to be,' returns Mr Dombey, condescendingly, 'will
be very sensible of your attention, Carker, I am sure.'
'And if she is to be Mrs Dombey this morning, Sir,' says the Major,
putting down his coffee-cup, and looking at his watch, 'it's high time we
Forth, in a barouche, ride Mr Dombey, Major Bagstock, and Mr Carker, to
the church. Mr Sownds the Beadle has long risen from the steps, and is in
waiting with his cocked hat in his hand. Mrs Miff curtseys and proposes
chairs in the vestry. Mr Dombey prefers remaining in the church. As he looks
up at the organ, Miss Tox in the gallery shrinks behind the fat leg of a
cherubim on a monument, with cheeks like a young Wind. Captain Cuttle, on
the contrary, stands up and waves his hook, in token of welcome and
encouragement. Mr Toots informs the Chicken, behind his hand, that the
middle gentleman, he in the fawn-coloured pantaloons, is the father of his
love. The Chicken hoarsely whispers Mr Toots that he's as stiff a cove as
ever he see, but that it is within the resources of Science to double him
up, with one blow in the waistcoat.
Mr Sownds and Mrs Miff are eyeing Mr Dombey from a little distance,
when the noise of approaching wheels is heard, and Mr Sownds goes out. Mrs
Miff, meeting Mr Dombey's eye as it is withdrawn from the presumptuous
maniac upstairs, who salutes him with so much urbanity, drops a curtsey, and
informs him that she believes his 'good lady' is come. Then there is a
crowding and a whispering at the door, and the good lady enters, with a
There is no sign upon her face, of last night's suffering; there is no
trace in her manner, of the woman on the bended knees, reposing her wild
head, in beautiful abandonment, upon the pillow of the sleeping girl. That
girl, all gentle and lovely, is at her side - a striking contrast to her own
disdainful and defiant figure, standing there, composed, erect, inscrutable
of will, resplendent and majestic in the zenith of its charms, yet beating
down, and treading on, the admiration that it challenges.
There is a pause while Mr Sownds the Beadle glides into the vestry for
the clergyman and clerk. At this juncture, Mrs Skewton speaks to Mr Dombey:
more distinctly and emphatically than her custom is, and moving at the same
time, close to Edith.
'My dear Dombey,' said the good Mama, 'I fear I must relinquish darling
Florence after all, and suffer her to go home, as she herself proposed.
After my loss of to-day, my dear Dombey, I feel I shall not have spirits,
even for her society.'
'Had she not better stay with you?' returns the Bridegroom.
'I think not, my dear Dombey. No, I think not. I shall be better alone.
Besides, my dearest Edith will be her natural and constant guardian when you
return, and I had better not encroach upon her trust, perhaps. She might be
jealous. Eh, dear Edith?'
The affectionate Mama presses her daughter's arm, as she says this;
perhaps entreating her attention earnestly.
'To be serious, my dear Dombey,' she resumes, 'I will relinquish our
dear child, and not inflict my gloom upon her. We have settled that, just
now. She fully understands, dear Dombey. Edith, my dear, - she fully
Again, the good mother presses her daughter's arm. Mr Dombey offers no
additional remonstrance; for the clergyman and clerk appear; and Mrs Miff,
and Mr Sownds the Beadle, group the party in their proper places at the
The sun is shining down, upon the golden letters of the ten
commandments. Why does the Bride's eye read them, one by one? Which one of
all the ten appears the plainest to her in the glare of light? False Gods;
murder; theft; the honour that she owes her mother; - which is it that
appears to leave the wall, and printing itself in glowing letters, on her
"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"'
Cousin Feenix does that. He has come from Baden-Baden on purpose.
'Confound it,' Cousin Feenix says - good-natured creature, Cousin Feenix -
'when we do get a rich City fellow into the family, let us show him some
attention; let us do something for him.' I give this woman to be married to
this man,' saith Cousin Feenix therefore. Cousin Feenix, meaning to go in a
straight line, but turning off sideways by reason of his wilful legs, gives
the wrong woman to be married to this man, at first - to wit, a brides- maid
of some condition, distantly connected with the family, and ten years Mrs
Skewton's junior - but Mrs Miff, interposing her mortified bonnet,
dexterously turns him back, and runs him, as on castors, full at the 'good
lady:' whom Cousin Feenix giveth to married to this man accordingly. And
will they in the sight of heaven - ? Ay, that they will: Mr Dombey says he
will. And what says Edith? She will. So, from that day forward, for better
for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to
cherish, till death do them part, they plight their troth to one another,
and are married. In a firm, free hand, the Bride subscribes her name in the
register, when they adjourn to the vestry. 'There ain't a many ladies come
here,' Mrs Miff says with a curtsey - to look at Mrs Miff, at such a season,
is to make her mortified bonnet go down with a dip - writes their names like
this good lady!' Mr Sownds the Beadle thinks it is a truly spanking
signature, and worthy of the writer - this, however, between himself and
conscience. Florence signs too, but unapplauded, for her hand shakes. All
the party sign; Cousin Feenix last; who puts his noble name into a wrong
place, and enrols himself as having been born that morning. The Major now
salutes the Bride right gallantly, and carries out that branch of military
tactics in reference to all the ladies: notwithstanding Mrs Skewton's being
extremely hard to kiss, and squeaking shrilly in the sacred edIfice. The
example is followed by Cousin. Feenix and even by Mr Dombey. Lastly, Mr
Carker, with hIs white teeth glistening, approaches Edith, more as if he
meant to bite her, than to taste the sweets that linger on her lips.
There is a glow upon her proud cheek, and a flashing in her eyes, that
may be meant to stay him; but it does not, for he salutes her as the rest
have done, and wishes her all happiness.
'If wishes,' says he in a low voice, 'are not superfluous, applied to
such a union.'
'I thank you, Sir,' she answers, with a curled lip, and a heaving
But, does Edith feel still, as on the night when she knew that Mr
Dombey would return to offer his alliance, that Carker knows her thoroughly,
and reads her right, and that she is more degraded by his knowledge of her,
than by aught else? Is it for this reason that her haughtiness shrinks
beneath his smile, like snow within the hands that grasps it firmly, and
that her imperious glance droops In meeting his, and seeks the ground?
'I am proud to see,' said Mr Carker, with a servile stooping of his
neck, which the revelations making by his eyes and teeth proclaim to be a
lie, 'I am proud to see that my humble offering is graced by Mrs Dombey's
hand, and permitted to hold so favoured a place in so joyful an occasion.'
Though she bends her head, in answer, there is something in the
momentary action of her hand, as if she would crush the flowers it holds,
and fling them, with contempt, upon the ground. But, she puts the hand
through the arm of her new husband, who has been standing near, conversing
with the Major, and is proud again, and motionless, and silent.
The carriages are once more at the church door. Mr Dombey, with his
bride upon his arm, conducts her through the twenty families of little women
who are on the steps, and every one of whom remembers the fashion and the
colour of her every article of dress from that moment, and reproduces it on
her doll, who is for ever being married. Cleopatra and Cousin Feenix enter
the same carriage. The Major hands into a second carriage, Florence, and the
bridesmaid who so narrowly escaped being given away by mistake, and then
enters it himself, and is followed by Mr Carker. Horses prance and caper;
coachmen and footmen shine in fluttering favours, flowers, and new-made
liveries. Away they dash and rattle through the streets; and as they pass
along, a thousand heads are turned to look at them, and a thousand sober
moralists revenge themselves for not being married too, that morning, by
reflecting that these people little think such happiness can't last.
Miss Tox emerges from behind the cherubim's leg, when all is quiet, and
comes slowly down from the gallery. Miss Tox's eyes are red, and her
pocket-handkerchief is damp. She is wounded, but not exasperated, and she
hopes they may be happy. She quite admits to herself the beauty of the
bride, and her own comparatively feeble and faded attractions; but the
stately image of Mr Dombey in his lilac waistcoat, and his fawn-coloured
pantaloons, is present to her mind, and Miss Tox weeps afresh, behind her
veil, on her way home to Princess's Place. Captain Cuttle, having joined in
all the amens and responses, with a devout growl, feels much improved by his
religious exercises; and in a peaceful frame of mind pervades the body of
the church, glazed hat in hand, and reads the tablet to the memory of little
Paul. The gallant Mr Toots, attended by the faithful Chicken, leaves the
building in torments of love. The Chicken is as yet unable to elaborate a
scheme for winning Florence, but his first idea has gained possession of
him, and he thinks the doubling up of Mr Dombey would be a move in the right
direction. Mr Dombey's servants come out of their hiding-places, and prepare
to rush to Brook Street, when they are delayed by symptoms of indisposition
on the part of Mrs Perch, who entreats a glass of water, and becomes
alarming; Mrs Perch gets better soon, however, and is borne away; and Mrs
Miff, and Mr Sownds the Beadle, sit upon the steps to count what they have
gained by the affair, and talk it over, while the sexton tolls a funeral.
Now, the carriages arrive at the Bride's residence, and the players on
the bells begin to jingle, and the band strikes up, and Mr Punch, that model
of connubial bliss, salutes his wife. Now, the people run, and push, and
press round in a gaping throng, while Mr Dombey, leading Mrs Dombey by the
hand, advances solemnly into the Feenix Halls. Now, the rest of the wedding
party alight, and enter after them. And why does Mr Carker, passing through
the people to the hall-door, think of the old woman who called to him in the
Grove that morning? Or why does Florence, as she passes, think, with a
tremble, of her childhood, when she was lost, and of the visage of Good Mrs
Now, there are more congratulations on this happiest of days, and more
company, though not much; and now they leave the drawing-room, and range
themselves at table in the dark-brown dining-room, which no confectioner can
brighten up, let him garnish the exhausted negroes with as many flowers and
love-knots as he will.
The pastry-cook has done his duty like a man, though, and a rich
breakfast is set forth. Mr and Mrs Chick have joined the party, among
others. Mrs Chick admires that Edith should be, by nature, such a perfect
Dombey; and is affable and confidential to Mrs Skewton, whose mind is
relieved of a great load, and who takes her share of the champagne. The very
tall young man who suffered from excitement early, is better; but a vague
sentiment of repentance has seized upon him, and he hates the other very
tall young man, and wrests dishes from him by violence, and takes a grim
delight in disobliging the company. The company are cool and calm, and do
not outrage the black hatchments of pictures looking down upon them, by any
excess of mirth. Cousin Feenix and the Major are the gayest there; but Mr
Carker has a smile for the whole table. He has an especial smile for the
Bride, who very, very seldom meets it.
Cousin Feenix rises, when the company have breakfasted, and the
servants have left the room; and wonderfully young he looks, with his white
wristbands almost covering his hands (otherwise rather bony), and the bloom
of the champagne in his cheeks.
'Upon my honour,' says Cousin Feenix, 'although it's an unusual sort of
thing in a private gentleman's house, I must beg leave to call upon you to
drink what is usually called a - in fact a toast.
The Major very hoarsely indicates his approval. Mr Carker, bending his
head forward over the table in the direction of Cousin Feenix, smiles and
nods a great many times.
'A - in fact it's not a - ' Cousin Feenix beginning again, thus, comes
to a dead stop.
'Hear, hear!' says the Major, in a tone of conviction.
Mr Carker softly claps his hands, and bending forward over the table
again, smiles and nods a great many more times than before, as if he were
particularly struck by this last observation, and desired personally to
express his sense of the good it has done
'It is,' says Cousin Feenix, 'an occasion in fact, when the general
usages of life may be a little departed from, without impropriety; and
although I never was an orator in my life, and when I was in the House of
Commons, and had the honour of seconding the address, was - in fact, was
laid up for a fortnight with the consciousness of failure - '
The Major and Mr Carker are so much delighted by this fragment of
personal history, that Cousin Feenix laughs, and addressing them
individually, goes on to say:
'And in point of fact, when I was devilish ill - still, you know, I
feel that a duty devolves upon me. And when a duty devolves upon an
Englishman, he is bound to get out of it, in my opinion, in the best way he
can. Well! our family has had the gratification, to-day, of connecting
itself, in the person of my lovely and accomplished relative, whom I now see
- in point of fact, present - '
Here there is general applause.
'Present,' repeats Cousin Feenix, feeling that it is a neat point which
will bear repetition, - 'with one who - that is to say, with a man, at whom
the finger of scorn can never - in fact, with my honourable friend Dombey,
if he will allow me to call him so.'
Cousin Feenix bows to Mr Dombey; Mr Dombey solemnly returns the bow;
everybody is more or less gratified and affected by this extraordinary, and
perhaps unprecedented, appeal to the feelings.
... ... ...
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