Says, "Bless my soul, sir! Mr.Tulkinghorn!" "I want half a word with you, Snagsby." "Certainly, sir! Dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man round for me?
Pray walk into the back shop, sir." Snagsby has brightened in a moment.
The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse, counting-house, and copying-office.

Mr.Tulkinghorn sits, facing round, on a stool at the desk.
"Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby." "Yes, sir." Mr.Snagsby turns up the gas and coughs behind his hand, modestly anticipating profit.

Mr.Snagsby, as a timid man, is accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save words.
"You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately." "Yes, sir, we did." "There was one of them," says Mr.Tulkinghorn, carelessly feeling--tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!--in the wrong coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather like.

As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I looked in to ask you--but I haven't got it.

No matter, any other time will do.