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The music was the "Waltz of Salomé," and with its slow-fading end they postured slower and slower to a perfect close. There was no need to speak. In silence, without a glance at each other, they returned to the company where Dick was proclaiming: "Well, younglings, codlings, and other fry, that's the way we old folks used to dance. I'm not saying anything against the new dances, mind you.
Dick Swiveller leans against a wall, his hands in his pockets, a primrose held between his teeth, contemplating the opera of Punch and Judy, which is being conducted under the management of Messrs. Codlings and Short. You turn a corner and you meet the coffin of little Paul Dombey borne along. Who would have thought of encountering a funeral in this place?
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