An occasion presented itself.

The Marchioness dealt, turned up a knave, and omitted to take the usual advantage; upon which Mr Swiveller called out as loud as he could--'Two for his heels!' The Marchioness jumped up quickly and clapped her hands.

'Arabian Night, certainly,' thought Mr Swiveller; 'they always clap their hands instead of ringing the bell.

Now for the two thousand black slaves, with jars of jewels on their heads!' It appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy; for directly afterward she began to laugh, and then to cry; declaring, not in choice Arabic but in familiar English, that she was 'so glad, she didn't know what to do.' 'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully, 'be pleased to draw nearer.

First of all, will you have the goodness to inform me where I shall find my voice; and secondly, what has become of my flesh ?' The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again; whereupon Mr Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes affected likewise.
'I begin to infer, from your manner, and these appearances, Marchioness,' said Richard after a pause, and smiling with a trembling lip, 'that I have been ill.' 'You just have!' replied the small servant, wiping her eyes.