Again, the dreaded Sunday comes round, and I file into the old pew first, like a guarded captive brought to a condemned service.

Again, Miss Murdstone, in a black velvet gown, that looks as if it had been made out of a pall, follows close upon me; then my mother; then her husband.

There is no Peggotty now, as in the old time.

Again, I listen to Miss Murdstone mumbling the responses, and emphasizing all the dread words with a cruel relish.

Again, I see her dark eyes roll round the church when she says 'miserable sinners', as if she were calling all the congregation names.
Again, I catch rare glimpses of my mother, moving her lips timidly between the two, with one of them muttering at each ear like low thunder.