'Well-a-day!' he chuckled, as sinking on his knees before a strong
chest screwed down to the floor, he thrust in his arm nearly up to the
shoulder, and slowly drew forth this greasy volume. 'Well-a-day now,
this is all my library, but it's one of the most entertaining books that
were ever written! It's a delightful book, and all true and real--that's
the best of it--true as the Bank of England, and real as its gold and
silver. Written by Arthur Gride. He, he, he! None of your storybook
writers will ever make as good a book as this, I warrant me. It's
composed for private circulation, for my own particular reading, and
nobody else's. He, he, he!'
Muttering this soliloquy, Arthur carried his precious volume to the
table, and, adjusting it upon a dusty desk, put on his spectacles, and
began to pore among the leaves.
'It's a large sum to Mr Nickleby,' he said, in a dolorous voice.
'Debt to be paid in full, nine hundred and seventy-five, four, three.
Additional sum as per bond, five hundred pound. One thousand, four
hundred and seventy-five pounds, four shillings, and threepence,
tomorrow at twelve o'clock.
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