'Where would you run to, Dick ?' 'I don't know' returned Mr Swiveller.

'Towards Highgate, I suppose.
Perhaps the bells might strike up "Turn again Swiveller, Lord Mayor of London." Whittington's name was Dick.

I wish cats were scarcer.' Quilp looked at his companion with his eyes screwed up into a comical expression of curiosity, and patiently awaited his further explanation; upon which, however, Mr Swiveller appeared in no hurry to enter, as he ate a very long dinner in profound silence, finally pushed away his plate, threw himself back into his chair, folded his arms, and stared ruefully at the fire, in which some ends of cigars were smoking on their own account, and sending up a fragrant odour.
'Perhaps you'd like a bit of cake'-- said Dick, at last turning to the dwarf.

'You're quite welcome to it.

You ought to be, for it's of your making.' 'What do you mean ?' said Quilp.
Mr Swiveller replied by taking from his pocket a small and very greasy parcel, slowly unfolding it, and displaying a little slab of plum-cake extremely indigestible in appearance, and bordered with a paste of white sugar an inch and a half deep.
'What should you say this was ?' demanded Mr Swiveller.
'It looks like bride-cake,' replied the dwarf, grinning.
'And whose should you say it was ?' inquired Mr Swiveller, rubbing the pastry against his nose with a dreadful calmness.