Status Updates From Martin Čazlvit

Engagement! As if he could have any engagement!
So they went off arm-in-arm. When Tom and Mr. Chuzzlewit went off arm-in-arm a few minutes after them, the latter was still smiling, and really, for a gentleman of his habits, in rather a knowing manner.

The hand had shut upon it tight. With that rigidity of grasp with which no living man, in the full strength and energy of life, can clutch a prize he has won.
They dragged him out, into the dark street, but jury, judge, and hangman could have done no more, and could do nothing now. Dead, dead, dead.

The same! No, not the same, for this old man, though old, was strong, and leaned upon his stick with a vigorous hand, while with the other he signed to Tom to make no noise. (...)

And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening, and showing that he heard. Whether he attended to their talk, or tried to think of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or resolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse clock at his back, he always lapsed, as if a spell were on him, into eager listening: for he knew it must come, and his present punishment, and torture, (...)

Tom Pinch’s suppositional serenade (369). Martin seems oblivious to the effect his fancies are having on Tom Pinch. Is that the effect of all public declarations of love?

He had dipped the pen, as another moment showed, into red ink. But he attached a strange degree of importance to the mistake. He asked how it had come there, who had brought it, why it had been brought; and looked at Montague, at first, as if he thought he had put a trick upon him. (...)

He gave the boy a shake and threw him roughly aside. There was more of his familiar self in the action than in anything he had done that day. Still,he broke out laughing immediately afterwards and,making a thrust at the doctor with his hand in imitation of his representation of the medical friend, went out to the carriage again and took his seat. His companion followed immediately. Mr. Bailey climbed into the rumble.

They went down in that order. Whatever Jonas felt in reference to Montague, whatever sense he had of being caged, and barred, and trapped, and having fallen into a pit of deepest ruin; whatever thoughts came crowding on his even at that early time, of one terrible chance of escape, of one red glimmer in a sky of blackness; (...)

In short, Mr. Pecksniff was supposed to have done a great work and was very kindly, courteously, and generally rewarded. When the procession moved away, and Martin and Mark were left almost alone upon the ground, his merits and a desire to acknowledge them formed the common topic. He was only second to the Gentlemanly member.

He bore his good fortune with the utmost moderation. Instead of being triumphant, he shed more tears than he had ever been known to shed before: and, sobbing, said:
"Oh, what a day this has been! I can't go back to the office this afternoon. Oh, what a trying day this has been, Good gracious!"

When the light cloud of bustle hanging round the coach was thus dispersed, Nadgett was seen in the darkest box of the Bull coffee-room, looking wistfully up at the clock, as if the man who never appeared were a little behind his time.

She roused herself from looking after him as he left the room, to do what he had desired: when the old man Chuffey laid his hand softly on her arm.

Throwing down his hatchet, he sped away immediately, but stopped when he had gone a little distance, and looked back: then hurried on again.

Tom's teeth chattered in his head, and he positively staggered with amazement at witnessing the extraordinary effect produced on Mr. Pecksniff by these simple words. The dread of losing the old man's favor almost as soon as they were reconciled, through the mere fact of having Jonas in the house; (...)