I picture myself with my books shut up, still listening to the doleful performance of Mr.Mell, and listening through it to what used to be at home, and to the blowing of the wind on Yarmouth flats, and feeling very sad and solitary.

I picture myself going up to bed, among the unused rooms, and sitting on my bed-side crying for a comfortable word from Peggotty.

I picture myself coming downstairs in the morning, and looking through a long ghastly gash of a staircase window at the school-bell hanging on the top of an out-house with a weathercock above it; and dreading the time when it shall ring J.
Steerforth and the rest to work: which is only second, in my foreboding apprehensions, to the time when the man with the wooden leg shall unlock the rusty gate to give admission to the awful Mr.Creakle.I cannot think I was a very dangerous character in any of these aspects, but in all of them I carried the same warning on my back.
Mr.Mell never said much to me, but he was never harsh to me.

I suppose we were company to each other, without talking.

I forgot to mention that he would talk to himself sometimes, and grin, and clench his fist, and grind his teeth, and pull his hair in an unaccountable manner.