I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr.Pickwick.' At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr.Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leathern hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bedroom, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick, to one side of the house, while Mr.Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to another.
'This is your room, sir,' said the chambermaid.
'Very well,' replied Mr.Pickwick, looking round him.

It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr.Pickwick's short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.
'Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,' said Mr.Pickwick.
'Oh, no, Sir.' 'Very good.

Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night.' 'Yes, Sir,' and bidding Mr.Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left him alone.
Mr.Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations.

First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs.Martha Bardell; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of Dodson & Fogg.

From Dodson & Fogg's it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer client; and then it came back to the Great White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr.Pickwick that he was falling asleep.