If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition.
Mr.Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street.

He was in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power.

Mr.Bumble always carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual.

There was an abstraction in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle's mind, too great for utterance.
Mr.Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along.

He merely returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs.Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care.
'Drat that beadle!' said Mrs.Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden-gate.