'You know best, of course.' 'Of course,' replied Mr.Pickwick hastily.

'Where does Serjeant Snubbin live ?' 'In Lincoln's Inn Old Square,' replied Perker.
'I should like to see him,' said Mr.Pickwick.
'See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear Sir!' rejoined Perker, in utter amazement.

'Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir, impossible.

See Serjeant Snubbin! Bless you, my dear Sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a consultation fee being previously paid, and a consultation fixed.

It couldn't be done, my dear Sir; it couldn't be done.' Mr.Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be done, but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within ten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was impossible, he was conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of the great Serjeant Snubbin himself.
It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing-table drawn up near the fire, the baize top of which had long since lost all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually grown gray with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were obliterated by ink-stains.