's Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with a Collegiate friend about
the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had greatly distinguished himself one
evening at the social club that held its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing
a speech to the members of that institution, singing a song, and treating the
company to five gallons of ale - report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The
effect on Mr. Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an eye-witness of
in his faithful visits, made an impression on Little Dorrit only second to that
produced by the phenomena themselves. They seemed to gag and bind him. He could
only stare, and sometimes weakly mutter that it wouldn't be believed down
Bleeding Heart Yard that this was Pancks; but he never said a word more, or made
a sign more, even to Little Dorrit. Mr. Pancks crowned his mysteries by making
himself acquainted with Tip in some unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter
into the College on that gentleman's arm. Throughout he never took any notice of
Little Dorrit, save once or twice when he happened to come close to her, and
there was no one very near; on which occasions, he said in passing, with a
friendly look and a puff of encouragement, »Pancks the gipsy - fortune-telling.«
    Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this, but keeping
her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many heavier loads, in her
own breast. A change had stolen, and was stealing yet, over the patient heart.
Every day found her something more retiring than the day before. To pass in and
out of the prison unnoticed, and elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were,
for herself, her chief desires.
    To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate youth and
character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could without desertion of
any duty. There were afternoon times when she was unemployed, when visitors
dropped in to play a hand at cards with her father, when she could be spared and
was better away. Then she would flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs
that led to her room, and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did
those spikes upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron weave
itself into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while Little Dorrit sat
there musing. New zig-zags sprung into the cruel pattern sometimes, when she saw
it through a burst of tears;