It hovers about Snagsby's door.

The hours are early there: dinner at half-past one and supper at half-past nine.

Mr.Snagsby was about to descend into the subterranean regions to take tea when he looked out of his door just now and saw the crow who was out late.
"Master at home ?" Guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in the kitchen with Mr.and Mrs.Snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker's two daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two second-floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving the two 'prentices to distraction as they fondly suppose, but are merely awakening the unprofitable admiration of Guster, whose hair won't grow, and never would, and it is confidently thought, never will.
"Master at home ?" says Mr.Tulkinghorn.
Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him.

Guster disappears, glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the great torture of the law--a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off.
Mr.Snagsby appears, greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing.

Bolts a bit of bread and butter.