'Any more?' said the whistling gentleman.
'No more,' replied Job Trotter.
Mr. Pickwick paid, the door was unbolted, and out they came;
the uncombed gentleman bestowing a friendly nod upon Mr.
Roker, who happened to be passing at the moment.
From this spot, Mr. Pickwick wandered along all the galleries,
up and down all the staircases, and once again round the whole
area of the yard. The great body of the prison population
appeared to be Mivins, and Smangle, and the parson, and the
butcher, and the leg, over and over, and over again. There were
the same squalor, the same turmoil and noise, the same general
characteristics, in every corner; in the best and the worst alike.
The whole place seemed restless and troubled; and the people
were crowding and flitting to and fro, like the shadows in an
uneasy dream.
'I have seen enough,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he threw himself
into a chair in his little apartment. 'My head aches with these
scenes, and my heart too. Henceforth I will be a prisoner in my
own room.'
And Mr. Pickwick steadfastly adhered to this determination.
For three long months he remained shut up, all day; only
stealing out at night to breathe the air, when the greater part of his
fellow-prisoners were in bed or carousing in their rooms.
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