It is enough to know that Tom Pinch caught him in his arms, and that, at the same moment, Mr Pecksniff stepped back so hastily, that he missed his footing, tumbled over a chair, and fell in a sitting posture on the ground; where he remained without an effort to get up again, with his head in a corner, perhaps considering it the safest place.
'Let me go, Pinch!' cried Martin, shaking him away.

'Why do you hold me?
Do you think a blow could make him a more abject creature than he is?
Do you think that if I spat upon him, I could degrade him to a lower level than his own?
Look at him.

Look at him, Pinch!' Mr Pinch involuntarily did so.

Mr Pecksniff sitting, as has been already mentioned, on the carpet, with his head in an acute angle of the wainscot, and all the damage and detriment of an uncomfortable journey about him, was not exactly a model of all that is prepossessing and dignified in man, certainly.

Still he WAS Pecksniff; it was impossible to deprive him of that unique and paramount appeal to Tom.