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Updated: June 17, 2025
"It is my reward," said Mr. Turveydrop, "to hear you say so. In some respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. She was a devoted creature. But wooman, lovely wooman," said Mr. Turveydrop with very disagreeable gallantry, "what a sex you are!" I rose and joined Miss Jellyby, who was by this time putting on her bonnet.
Besides these one may mention Joe, the outcast; and Mr. Turveydrop, the beau of the school of the Regency how horrified he would have been at the juxtaposition and George, the keeper of the rifle gallery, a fine soldierly figure; and Mr. Bucket, the detective though Dickens had a tendency to idealize the abilities of the police force.
My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr. Turveydrop working so hard, to old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself so beautifully, when the latter came ambling up to me and entered into conversation. He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and a distinction on London by residing in it?
You will not fail in YOUR duty, my son and daughter, I believe?" "Dear father, never!" cried Prince. "Never, never, dear Mr. Turveydrop!" said Caddy. "This," returned Mr. Turveydrop, "is as it should be. My children, my home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. I will never leave you; nothing but death shall part us. My dear son, you contemplate an absence of a week, I think?"
Chorus of seraphim. Apotheosis of little Miss Turveydrop " He swayed a trine as he walked, but it was not from the wine. A policeman eyed him unfavourably, "No," said Berkley, "I'm not drunk. You think I am. But I'm not. And I'm too tired to tell you how I left my happy, happy home." In the rosy gray of the dawn he sat down on the steps of his new lodgings and gazed quietly into space.
Turveydrop, "for those little points in which you are deficient points of deportment, which are born with a man, which may be improved by cultivation, but can never be originated you may still rely on me. I have been faithful to my post since the days of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and I will not desert it now. No, my son.
Turveydrop, very apoplectic, still exhibits his deportment about town, still enjoys himself in the old manner, is still believed in in the old way. He is constant in his patronage of Peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him a favourite French clock in his dressing-room which is not his property.
Opening the book at the chapter entitled "At the Cab Rank," we walked up to a hansom, raised our hats, and wished the driver "Good-morning." This man was not to be outdone in politeness by any foreigner, real or imitation. Calling to a friend named "Charles" to "hold the steed," he sprang from his box, and returned to us a bow, that would have done credit to Mr. Turveydrop himself.
Turveydrop was in bed, I found, and Caddy was milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an apprentice it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the trade of dancing was waiting to carry upstairs. Her father-in-law was extremely kind and considerate, Caddy told me, and they lived most happily together. "And how is your mama, Caddy?" said I.
"A week, dear father. We shall return home this day week." "My dear child," said Mr. Turveydrop, "let me, even under the present exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality. It is highly important to keep the connexion together; and schools, if at all neglected, are apt to take offence." "This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner." "Good!" said Mr. Turveydrop.
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