There have been times when I have administered a succession of facers to them; there have been times when they have been too many for me, and I have given in, and said to Mrs.Micawber, in the words of Cato, "Plato, thou reasonest well.

It's all up now.

I can show fight no more." But at no time of my life,' said Mr.Micawber, 'have I enjoyed a higher degree of satisfaction than in pouring my griefs (if I may describe difficulties, chiefly arising out of warrants of attorney and promissory notes at two and four months, by that word) into the bosom of my friend Copperfield.' Mr.Micawber closed this handsome tribute by saying, 'Mr.Heep! Good evening.

Mrs.Heep! Your servant,' and then walking out with me in his most fashionable manner, making a good deal of noise on the pavement with his shoes, and humming a tune as we went.
It was a little inn where Mr.Micawber put up, and he occupied a little room in it, partitioned off from the commercial room, and strongly flavoured with tobacco-smoke.

I think it was over the kitchen, because a warm greasy smell appeared to come up through the chinks in the floor, and there was a flabby perspiration on the walls.