["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I landed in London on a wintry autumn evening. It was dark and raining,\nand I saw more fog and mud in a minute than I had seen in a year. I\nwalked from the Custom House to the Monument before I found a coach;\nand although the very house-fronts, looking on the swollen gutters, were\nlike old friends to me, I could not but admit that they were very dingy\nfriends. I have often remarked--I suppose everybody has--that one's going away\nfrom a familiar place, would seem to be the signal for change in it. As I looked out of the coach window, and observed that an old house on\nFish-street Hill, which had stood untouched by painter, carpenter, or\nbricklayer, for a century, had been pulled down in my absence; and that\na neighbouring street, of time-honoured insalubrity and inconvenience,\nwas being drained and widened; I half expected to find St. Paul's\nCathedral looking older. For some changes in the fortunes of my friends, I was prepared. My aunt\nhad long been re-established at Dover, and Traddles had begun to get\ninto some little practice at the Bar, in the very first term after my\ndeparture. He had chambers in Gray's Inn, now; and had told me, in his\nlast letters, that he was not without hopes of being soon united to the\ndearest girl in the world. They expected me home before Christmas; but had no idea of my returning\nso soon. I had purposely misled them, that I might have the pleasure of\ntaking them by surprise. And yet, I was perverse enough to feel a chill\nand disappointment in receiving no welcome, and rattling, alone and\nsilent, through the misty streets. The well-known shops, however, with their cheerful lights, did something\nfor me; and when I alighted at the door of the Gray's Inn Coffee-house,\nI had recovered my spirits. It recalled, at first, that so-different\ntime when I had put up at the Golden Cross, and reminded me of the\nchanges that had come to pass since then; but that was natural. 'Do you know where Mr. Traddles lives in the Inn?' I asked the waiter,\nas I warmed myself by the coffee-room fire. 'Holborn Court, sir. Number two.' 'Mr. Traddles has a rising reputation among the lawyers, I believe?' said I. 'Well, sir,' returned the waiter, 'probably he has, sir; but I am not\naware of it myself.' This waiter, who was middle-aged and spare, looked for help to a waiter\nof more authority--a stout, potential old man, with a double chin,\nin black breeches and stockings, who came out of a place like a\nchurchwarden's pew, at the end of the coffee-room, where he kept company\nwith a cash-box, a Directory, a Law-list, and other books and papers. 'Mr. Traddles,' said the spare waiter. 'Number two in the Court.' The potential waiter waved him away, and turned, gravely, to me. 'I was inquiring,' said I, 'whether Mr. Traddles, at number two in the\nCourt, has not a rising reputation among the lawyers?' 'Never heard his name,' said the waiter, in a rich husky voice. I felt quite apologetic for Traddles. 'He's a young man, sure?' said the portentous waiter, fixing his eyes\nseverely on me. 'How long has he been in the Inn?' 'Not above three years,' said I. The waiter, who I supposed had lived in his churchwarden's pew for forty\nyears, could not pursue such an insignificant subject. He asked me what\nI would have for dinner? I felt I was in England again, and really was quite cast down on\nTraddles's account. There seemed to be no hope for him. I meekly ordered\na bit of fish and a steak, and stood before the fire musing on his\nobscurity. As I followed the chief waiter with my eyes, I could not help thinking\nthat the garden in which he had gradually blown to be the flower he\nwas, was an arduous place to rise in. It had such a prescriptive,\nstiff-necked, long-established, solemn, elderly air. I glanced about the\nroom, which had had its sanded floor sanded, no doubt, in exactly the\nsame manner when the chief waiter was a boy--if he ever was a boy,\nwhich appeared improbable; and at the shining tables, where I saw\nmyself reflected, in unruffled depths of old mahogany; and at the lamps,\nwithout a flaw in their trimming or cleaning; and at the comfortable\ngreen curtains, with their pure brass rods, snugly enclosing the boxes;\nand at the two large coal fires, brightly burning; and at the rows of\ndecanters, burly as if with the consciousness of pipes of expensive old\nport wine below; and both England, and the law, appeared to me to be\nvery difficult indeed to be taken by storm. I went up to my bedroom\nto change my wet clothes; and the vast extent of that old wainscoted\napartment (which was over the archway leading to the Inn, I remember),\nand the sedate immensity of the four-post bedstead, and the indomitable\ngravity of the chests of drawers, all seemed to unite in sternly\nfrowning on the fortunes of Traddles, or on any such daring youth. I\ncame down again to my dinner; and even the slow comfort of the meal,\nand the orderly silence of the place--which was bare of guests, the Long\nVacation not yet being over--were eloquent on the audacity of Traddles,\nand his small hopes of a livelihood for twenty years to come. I had seen nothing like this since I went away, and it quite dashed my\nhopes for my friend. The chief waiter had had enough of me. He came near\nme no more; but devoted himself to an old gentleman in long gaiters, to\nmeet whom a pint of special port seemed to come out of the cellar of its\nown accord, for he gave no order. The second waiter informed me, in a\nwhisper, that this old gentleman was a retired conveyancer living in the\nSquare, and worth a mint of money, which it was expected he would leave\nto his laundress's daughter; likewise that it was rumoured that he had\na service of plate in a bureau, all tarnished with lying by, though more\nthan one spoon and a fork had never yet been beheld in his chambers\nby mortal vision. By this time, I quite gave Traddles up for lost; and\nsettled in my own mind that there was no hope for him. Being very anxious to see the dear old fellow, nevertheless, I\ndispatched my dinner, in a manner not at all calculated to raise me in\nthe opinion of the chief waiter, and hurried out by the back way. Number\ntwo in the Court was soon reached; and an inscription on the door-post\ninforming me that Mr. Traddles occupied a set of chambers on the top\nstorey, I ascended the staircase. A crazy old staircase I found it to\nbe, feebly lighted on each landing by a club--headed little oil wick,\ndying away in a little dungeon of dirty glass. In the course of my stumbling upstairs, I fancied I heard a pleasant\nsound of laughter; and not the laughter of an attorney or barrister, or\nattorney's clerk or barrister's clerk, but of two or three merry girls. Happening, however, as I stopped to listen, to put my foot in a hole\nwhere the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn had left a plank deficient,\nI fell down with some noise, and when I recovered my footing all was\nsilent. Groping my way more carefully, for the rest of the journey, my heart\nbeat high when I found the outer door, which had Mr. TRADDLES painted on\nit, open. I knocked. A considerable scuffling within ensued, but nothing\nelse. I therefore knocked again. A small sharp-looking lad, half-footboy and half-clerk, who was very\nmuch out of breath, but who looked at me as if he defied me to prove it\nlegally, presented himself. 'Is Mr. Traddles within?' I said. 'Yes, sir, but he's engaged.' 'I want to see him.' After a moment's survey of me, the sharp-looking lad decided to let me\nin; and opening the door wider for that purpose, admitted me, first,\ninto a little closet of a hall, and next into a little sitting-room;\nwhere I came into the presence of my old friend (also out of breath),\nseated at a table, and bending over papers. 'Good God!' cried Traddles, looking up. 'It's Copperfield!' and rushed\ninto my arms, where I held him tight. 'All well, my dear Traddles?' 'All well, my dear, dear Copperfield, and nothing but good news!' We cried with pleasure, both of us.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-02 The user is reading a book]\n<User> 'My dear fellow,' said Traddles, rumpling his hair in his excitement,\nwhich was a most unnecessary operation, 'my dearest Copperfield, my\nlong-lost and most welcome friend, how glad I am to see you! How\nbrown you are! How glad I am! Upon my life and honour, I never was so\nrejoiced, my beloved Copperfield, never!' I was equally at a loss to express my emotions. I was quite unable to\nspeak, at first. 'My dear fellow!' said Traddles. 'And grown so famous! My glorious\nCopperfield! Good gracious me, WHEN did you come, WHERE have you come\nfrom, WHAT have you been doing?' Never pausing for an answer to anything he said, Traddles, who had\nclapped me into an easy-chair by the fire, all this time impetuously\nstirred the fire with one hand, and pulled at my neck-kerchief with\nthe other, under some wild delusion that it was a great-coat. Without\nputting down the poker, he now hugged me again; and I hugged him; and,\nboth laughing, and both wiping our eyes, we both sat down, and shook\nhands across the hearth. 'To think,' said Traddles, 'that you should have been so nearly coming\nhome as you must have been, my dear old boy, and not at the ceremony!' 'What ceremony, my dear Traddles?' 'Good gracious me!' cried Traddles, opening his eyes in his old way. 'Didn't you get my last letter?' 'Certainly not, if it referred to any ceremony.' 'Why, my dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, sticking his hair upright\nwith both hands, and then putting his hands on my knees, 'I am married!' 'Married!' I cried joyfully. 'Lord bless me, yes!' said Traddles--'by the Reverend Horace--to\nSophy--down in Devonshire. Why, my dear boy, she's behind the window\ncurtain! Look here!' To my amazement, the dearest girl in the world came at that same\ninstant, laughing and blushing, from her place of concealment. And a\nmore cheerful, amiable, honest, happy, bright-looking bride, I believe\n(as I could not help saying on the spot) the world never saw. I kissed\nher as an old acquaintance should, and wished them joy with all my might\nof heart. 'Dear me,' said Traddles, 'what a delightful re-union this is! You are\nso extremely brown, my dear Copperfield! God bless my soul, how happy I\nam!' 'And so am I,' said I. 'And I am sure I am!' said the blushing and laughing Sophy. 'We are all as happy as possible!' said Traddles. 'Even the girls are\nhappy. Dear me, I declare I forgot them!' 'Forgot?' said I. 'The girls,' said Traddles. 'Sophy's sisters. They are staying with us. They have come to have a peep at London. The fact is, when--was it you\nthat tumbled upstairs, Copperfield?' 'It was,' said I, laughing. 'Well then, when you tumbled upstairs,' said Traddles, 'I was romping\nwith the girls. In point of fact, we were playing at Puss in the Corner. But as that wouldn't do in Westminster Hall, and as it wouldn't look\nquite professional if they were seen by a client, they decamped. And\nthey are now--listening, I have no doubt,' said Traddles, glancing at\nthe door of another room. 'I am sorry,' said I, laughing afresh, 'to have occasioned such a\ndispersion.' 'Upon my word,' rejoined Traddles, greatly delighted, 'if you had seen\nthem running away, and running back again, after you had knocked, to\npick up the combs they had dropped out of their hair, and going on in\nthe maddest manner, you wouldn't have said so. My love, will you fetch\nthe girls?' Sophy tripped away, and we heard her received in the adjoining room with\na peal of laughter. 'Really musical, isn't it, my dear Copperfield?' said Traddles. 'It's\nvery agreeable to hear. It quite lights up these old rooms. To an\nunfortunate bachelor of a fellow who has lived alone all his life, you\nknow, it's positively delicious. It's charming. Poor things, they have\nhad a great loss in Sophy--who, I do assure you, Copperfield is, and\never was, the dearest girl!--and it gratifies me beyond expression\nto find them in such good spirits. The society of girls is a very\ndelightful thing, Copperfield. It's not professional, but it's very\ndelightful.' Observing that he slightly faltered, and comprehending that in the\ngoodness of his heart he was fearful of giving me some pain by what he\nhad said, I expressed my concurrence with a heartiness that evidently\nrelieved and pleased him greatly. 'But then,' said Traddles, 'our domestic arrangements are, to say\nthe truth, quite unprofessional altogether, my dear Copperfield. Even\nSophy's being here, is unprofessional. And we have no other place of\nabode. We have put to sea in a cockboat, but we are quite prepared to\nrough it. And Sophy's an extraordinary manager! You'll be surprised how\nthose girls are stowed away. I am sure I hardly know how it's done!' 'Are many of the young ladies with you?' I inquired. 'The eldest, the Beauty is here,' said Traddles, in a low confidential\nvoice, 'Caroline. And Sarah's here--the one I mentioned to you as having\nsomething the matter with her spine, you know. Immensely better! And the\ntwo youngest that Sophy educated are with us. And Louisa's here.' 'Indeed!' cried I. 'Yes,' said Traddles. 'Now the whole set--I mean the chambers--is only\nthree rooms; but Sophy arranges for the girls in the most wonderful way,\nand they sleep as comfortably as possible. Three in that room,' said\nTraddles, pointing. 'Two in that.' I could not help glancing round, in search of the accommodation\nremaining for Mr. and Mrs. Traddles. Traddles understood me. 'Well!' said Traddles, 'we are prepared to rough it, as I said just now,\nand we did improvise a bed last week, upon the floor here. But there's\na little room in the roof--a very nice room, when you're up there--which\nSophy papered herself, to surprise me; and that's our room at present. It's a capital little gipsy sort of place. There's quite a view from\nit.' 'And you are happily married at last, my dear Traddles!' said I. 'How\nrejoiced I am!' 'Thank you, my dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, as we shook hands\nonce more. 'Yes, I am as happy as it's possible to be. There's your old\nfriend, you see,' said Traddles, nodding triumphantly at the flower-pot\nand stand; 'and there's the table with the marble top! All the other\nfurniture is plain and serviceable, you perceive. And as to plate, Lord\nbless you, we haven't so much as a tea-spoon.' 'All to be earned?' said I, cheerfully. 'Exactly so,' replied Traddles, 'all to be earned. Of course we have\nsomething in the shape of tea-spoons, because we stir our tea. But\nthey're Britannia metal.' 'The silver will be the brighter when it comes,' said I. 'The very thing we say!' cried Traddles. 'You see, my dear Copperfield,'\nfalling again into the low confidential tone, 'after I had delivered my\nargument in DOE dem. JIPES versus WIGZIELL, which did me great service\nwith the profession, I went down into Devonshire, and had some serious\nconversation in private with the Reverend Horace. I dwelt upon the fact\nthat Sophy--who I do assure you, Copperfield, is the dearest girl!--'\n\n'I am certain she is!' said I. 'She is, indeed!' rejoined Traddles. 'But I am afraid I am wandering\nfrom the subject. Did I mention the Reverend Horace?' 'You said that you dwelt upon the fact--'\n\n'True! Upon the fact that Sophy and I had been engaged for a long\nperiod, and that Sophy, with the permission of her parents, was more\nthan content to take me--in short,' said Traddles, with his old frank\nsmile, 'on our present Britannia-metal footing. Very well.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-02, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-05 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I then\nproposed to the Reverend Horace--who is a most excellent clergyman,\nCopperfield, and ought to be a Bishop; or at least ought to have enough\nto live upon, without pinching himself--that if I could turn the corner,\nsay of two hundred and fifty pounds, in one year; and could see my\nway pretty clearly to that, or something better, next year; and could\nplainly furnish a little place like this, besides; then, and in that\ncase, Sophy and I should be united. I took the liberty of representing\nthat we had been patient for a good many years; and that the\ncircumstance of Sophy's being extraordinarily useful at home, ought not\nto operate with her affectionate parents, against her establishment in\nlife--don't you see?' 'Certainly it ought not,' said I. 'I am glad you think so, Copperfield,' rejoined Traddles, 'because,\nwithout any imputation on the Reverend Horace, I do think parents, and\nbrothers, and so forth, are sometimes rather selfish in such cases. Well! I also pointed out, that my most earnest desire was, to be useful\nto the family; and that if I got on in the world, and anything should\nhappen to him--I refer to the Reverend Horace--'\n\n'I understand,' said I.\n\n' --Or to Mrs. Crewler--it would be the utmost gratification of my\nwishes, to be a parent to the girls. He replied in a most admirable\nmanner, exceedingly flattering to my feelings, and undertook to obtain\nthe consent of Mrs. Crewler to this arrangement. They had a dreadful\ntime of it with her. It mounted from her legs into her chest, and then\ninto her head--'\n\n'What mounted?' I asked. 'Her grief,' replied Traddles, with a serious look. 'Her feelings\ngenerally. As I mentioned on a former occasion, she is a very superior\nwoman, but has lost the use of her limbs. Whatever occurs to harass\nher, usually settles in her legs; but on this occasion it mounted to the\nchest, and then to the head, and, in short, pervaded the whole system\nin a most alarming manner. However, they brought her through it by\nunremitting and affectionate attention; and we were married yesterday\nsix weeks. You have no idea what a Monster I felt, Copperfield, when I\nsaw the whole family crying and fainting away in every direction! Mrs.\nCrewler couldn't see me before we left--couldn't forgive me, then, for\ndepriving her of her child--but she is a good creature, and has done so\nsince. I had a delightful letter from her, only this morning.' 'And in short, my dear friend,' said I, 'you feel as blest as you\ndeserve to feel!' 'Oh! That's your partiality!' laughed Traddles. 'But, indeed, I am in a\nmost enviable state. I work hard, and read Law insatiably. I get up at\nfive every morning, and don't mind it at all. I hide the girls in the\ndaytime, and make merry with them in the evening. And I assure you I am\nquite sorry that they are going home on Tuesday, which is the day before\nthe first day of Michaelmas Term. But here,' said Traddles, breaking off\nin his confidence, and speaking aloud, 'ARE the girls! Mr. Copperfield,\nMiss Crewler--Miss Sarah--Miss Louisa--Margaret and Lucy!' They were a perfect nest of roses; they looked so wholesome and fresh. They were all pretty, and Miss Caroline was very handsome; but there was\na loving, cheerful, fireside quality in Sophy's bright looks, which was\nbetter than that, and which assured me that my friend had chosen well. We all sat round the fire; while the sharp boy, who I now divined had\nlost his breath in putting the papers out, cleared them away again, and\nproduced the tea-things. After that, he retired for the night, shutting\nthe outer door upon us with a bang. Mrs. Traddles, with perfect pleasure\nand composure beaming from her household eyes, having made the tea, then\nquietly made the toast as she sat in a corner by the fire. She had seen Agnes, she told me while she was toasting. 'Tom' had taken\nher down into Kent for a wedding trip, and there she had seen my aunt,\ntoo; and both my aunt and Agnes were well, and they had all talked of\nnothing but me. 'Tom' had never had me out of his thoughts, she really\nbelieved, all the time I had been away. 'Tom' was the authority for\neverything. 'Tom' was evidently the idol of her life; never to be shaken\non his pedestal by any commotion; always to be believed in, and done\nhomage to with the whole faith of her heart, come what might. The deference which both she and Traddles showed towards the Beauty,\npleased me very much. I don't know that I thought it very reasonable;\nbut I thought it very delightful, and essentially a part of their\ncharacter. If Traddles ever for an instant missed the tea-spoons that\nwere still to be won, I have no doubt it was when he handed the Beauty\nher tea. If his sweet-tempered wife could have got up any self-assertion\nagainst anyone, I am satisfied it could only have been because she was\nthe Beauty's sister. A few slight indications of a rather petted and\ncapricious manner, which I observed in the Beauty, were manifestly\nconsidered, by Traddles and his wife, as her birthright and natural\nendowment. If she had been born a Queen Bee, and they labouring Bees,\nthey could not have been more satisfied of that. But their self-forgetfulness charmed me. Their pride in these girls, and\ntheir submission of themselves to all their whims, was the pleasantest\nlittle testimony to their own worth I could have desired to see. If\nTraddles were addressed as 'a darling', once in the course of that\nevening; and besought to bring something here, or carry something there,\nor take something up, or put something down, or find something, or fetch\nsomething, he was so addressed, by one or other of his sisters-in-law,\nat least twelve times in an hour. Neither could they do anything without\nSophy. Somebody's hair fell down, and nobody but Sophy could put it up. Somebody forgot how a particular tune went, and nobody but Sophy could\nhum that tune right. Somebody wanted to recall the name of a place in\nDevonshire, and only Sophy knew it. Something was wanted to be written\nhome, and Sophy alone could be trusted to write before breakfast in\nthe morning. Somebody broke down in a piece of knitting, and no one but\nSophy was able to put the defaulter in the right direction. They were\nentire mistresses of the place, and Sophy and Traddles waited on them. How many children Sophy could have taken care of in her time, I can't\nimagine; but she seemed to be famous for knowing every sort of song that\never was addressed to a child in the English tongue; and she sang dozens\nto order with the clearest little voice in the world, one after another\n(every sister issuing directions for a different tune, and the Beauty\ngenerally striking in last), so that I was quite fascinated. The best\nof all was, that, in the midst of their exactions, all the sisters had\na great tenderness and respect both for Sophy and Traddles. I am sure,\nwhen I took my leave, and Traddles was coming out to walk with me to the\ncoffee-house, I thought I had never seen an obstinate head of hair, or\nany other head of hair, rolling about in such a shower of kisses. Altogether, it was a scene I could not help dwelling on with pleasure,\nfor a long time after I got back and had wished Traddles good night. If\nI had beheld a thousand roses blowing in a top set of chambers, in that\nwithered Gray's Inn, they could not have brightened it half so much. The idea of those Devonshire girls, among the dry law-stationers and the\nattorneys' offices; and of the tea and toast, and children's songs, in\nthat grim atmosphere of pounce and parchment, red-tape, dusty wafers,\nink-jars, brief and draft paper, law reports, writs, declarations, and\nbills of costs; seemed almost as pleasantly fanciful as if I had\ndreamed that the Sultan's famous family had been admitted on the roll of\nattorneys, and had brought the talking bird, the singing tree, and the\ngolden water into Gray's Inn Hall. Somehow, I found that I had taken\nleave of Traddles for the night, and come back to the coffee-house, with\na great change in my despondency about him.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-05, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-06 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I began to think he would\nget on, in spite of all the many orders of chief waiters in England. Drawing a chair before one of the coffee-room fires to think about him\nat my leisure, I gradually fell from the consideration of his happiness\nto tracing prospects in the live-coals, and to thinking, as they broke\nand changed, of the principal vicissitudes and separations that had\nmarked my life. I had not seen a coal fire, since I had left England\nthree years ago: though many a wood fire had I watched, as it crumbled\ninto hoary ashes, and mingled with the feathery heap upon the hearth,\nwhich not inaptly figured to me, in my despondency, my own dead hopes. I could think of the past now, gravely, but not bitterly; and could\ncontemplate the future in a brave spirit. Home, in its best sense, was\nfor me no more. She in whom I might have inspired a dearer love, I had\ntaught to be my sister. She would marry, and would have new claimants on\nher tenderness; and in doing it, would never know the love for her that\nhad grown up in my heart. It was right that I should pay the forfeit of\nmy headlong passion. What I reaped, I had sown. I was thinking. And had I truly disciplined my heart to this, and could\nI resolutely bear it, and calmly hold the place in her home which she\nhad calmly held in mine,--when I found my eyes resting on a countenance\nthat might have arisen out of the fire, in its association with my early\nremembrances. Little Mr. Chillip the Doctor, to whose good offices I was indebted in\nthe very first chapter of this history, sat reading a newspaper in the\nshadow of an opposite corner. He was tolerably stricken in years by this\ntime; but, being a mild, meek, calm little man, had worn so easily, that\nI thought he looked at that moment just as he might have looked when he\nsat in our parlour, waiting for me to be born. Mr. Chillip had left Blunderstone six or seven years ago, and I had\nnever seen him since. He sat placidly perusing the newspaper, with his\nlittle head on one side, and a glass of warm sherry negus at his\nelbow. He was so extremely conciliatory in his manner that he seemed to\napologize to the very newspaper for taking the liberty of reading it. I walked up to where he was sitting, and said, 'How do you do, Mr. Chillip?' He was greatly fluttered by this unexpected address from a stranger, and\nreplied, in his slow way, 'I thank you, sir, you are very good. Thank\nyou, sir. I hope YOU are well.' 'You don't remember me?' said I. 'Well, sir,' returned Mr. Chillip, smiling very meekly, and shaking his\nhead as he surveyed me, 'I have a kind of an impression that something\nin your countenance is familiar to me, sir; but I couldn't lay my hand\nupon your name, really.' 'And yet you knew it, long before I knew it myself,' I returned. 'Did I indeed, sir?' said Mr. Chillip. 'Is it possible that I had the\nhonour, sir, of officiating when--?' 'Yes,' said I. 'Dear me!' cried Mr. Chillip. 'But no doubt you are a good deal changed\nsince then, sir?' 'Probably,' said I. 'Well, sir,' observed Mr. Chillip, 'I hope you'll excuse me, if I am\ncompelled to ask the favour of your name?' On my telling him my name, he was really moved. He quite shook hands\nwith me--which was a violent proceeding for him, his usual course being\nto slide a tepid little fish-slice, an inch or two in advance of his\nhip, and evince the greatest discomposure when anybody grappled with\nit. Even now, he put his hand in his coat-pocket as soon as he could\ndisengage it, and seemed relieved when he had got it safe back. 'Dear me, sir!' said Mr. Chillip, surveying me with his head on one\nside. 'And it's Mr. Copperfield, is it? Well, sir, I think I should have\nknown you, if I had taken the liberty of looking more closely at you. There's a strong resemblance between you and your poor father, sir.' 'I never had the happiness of seeing my father,' I observed. 'Very true, sir,' said Mr. Chillip, in a soothing tone. 'And very much\nto be deplored it was, on all accounts! We are not ignorant, sir,' said\nMr. Chillip, slowly shaking his little head again, 'down in our part of\nthe country, of your fame. There must be great excitement here, sir,'\nsaid Mr. Chillip, tapping himself on the forehead with his forefinger. 'You must find it a trying occupation, sir!' 'What is your part of the country now?' I asked, seating myself near\nhim. 'I am established within a few miles of Bury St. Edmund's, sir,' said\nMr. Chillip. 'Mrs. Chillip, coming into a little property in that\nneighbourhood, under her father's will, I bought a practice down there,\nin which you will be glad to hear I am doing well. My daughter is\ngrowing quite a tall lass now, sir,' said Mr. Chillip, giving his little\nhead another little shake. 'Her mother let down two tucks in her frocks\nonly last week. Such is time, you see, sir!' As the little man put his now empty glass to his lips, when he made this\nreflection, I proposed to him to have it refilled, and I would keep him\ncompany with another. 'Well, sir,' he returned, in his slow way, 'it's\nmore than I am accustomed to; but I can't deny myself the pleasure\nof your conversation. It seems but yesterday that I had the honour of\nattending you in the measles. You came through them charmingly, sir!' I acknowledged this compliment, and ordered the negus, which was soon\nproduced. 'Quite an uncommon dissipation!' said Mr. Chillip, stirring\nit, 'but I can't resist so extraordinary an occasion. You have no\nfamily, sir?' I shook my head. 'I was aware that you sustained a bereavement, sir, some time ago,' said\nMr. Chillip. 'I heard it from your father-in-law's sister. Very decided\ncharacter there, sir?' 'Why, yes,' said I, 'decided enough. Where did you see her, Mr. Chillip?' 'Are you not aware, sir,' returned Mr. Chillip, with his placidest\nsmile, 'that your father-in-law is again a neighbour of mine?' 'No,' said I. 'He is indeed, sir!' said Mr. Chillip. 'Married a young lady of that\npart, with a very good little property, poor thing.---And this action\nof the brain now, sir? Don't you find it fatigue you?' said Mr. Chillip,\nlooking at me like an admiring Robin. I waived that question, and returned to the Murdstones. 'I was aware of\nhis being married again. Do you attend the family?' I asked. 'Not regularly. I have been called in,' he replied. 'Strong\nphrenological developments of the organ of firmness, in Mr. Murdstone\nand his sister, sir.' I replied with such an expressive look, that Mr. Chillip was emboldened\nby that, and the negus together, to give his head several short shakes,\nand thoughtfully exclaim, 'Ah, dear me! We remember old times, Mr. Copperfield!' 'And the brother and sister are pursuing their old course, are they?' said I. 'Well, sir,' replied Mr. Chillip, 'a medical man, being so much in\nfamilies, ought to have neither eyes nor ears for anything but his\nprofession. Still, I must say, they are very severe, sir: both as to\nthis life and the next.' 'The next will be regulated without much reference to them, I dare say,'\nI returned: 'what are they doing as to this?' Mr. Chillip shook his head, stirred his negus, and sipped it. 'She was a charming woman, sir!' he observed in a plaintive manner. 'The present Mrs. Murdstone?' 'A charming woman indeed, sir,' said Mr. Chillip; 'as amiable, I am sure,\nas it was possible to be! Mrs. Chillip's opinion is, that her spirit\nhas been entirely broken since her marriage, and that she is all but\nmelancholy mad. And the ladies,' observed Mr. Chillip, timorously, 'are\ngreat observers, sir.'\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-06, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> 'I suppose she was to be subdued and broken to their detestable mould,\nHeaven help her!' said I. 'And she has been.' 'Well, sir, there were violent quarrels at first, I assure you,' said\nMr. Chillip; 'but she is quite a shadow now. Would it be considered\nforward if I was to say to you, sir, in confidence, that since the\nsister came to help, the brother and sister between them have nearly\nreduced her to a state of imbecility?' I told him I could easily believe it. 'I have no hesitation in saying,' said Mr. Chillip, fortifying himself\nwith another sip of negus, 'between you and me, sir, that her mother\ndied of it--or that tyranny, gloom, and worry have made Mrs. Murdstone\nnearly imbecile. She was a lively young woman, sir, before marriage, and\ntheir gloom and austerity destroyed her. They go about with her, now,\nmore like her keepers than her husband and sister-in-law. That was\nMrs. Chillip's remark to me, only last week. And I assure you, sir, the\nladies are great observers. Mrs. Chillip herself is a great observer!' 'Does he gloomily profess to be (I am ashamed to use the word in such\nassociation) religious still?' I inquired. 'You anticipate, sir,' said Mr. Chillip, his eyelids getting quite\nred with the unwonted stimulus in which he was indulging. 'One of Mrs.\nChillip's most impressive remarks. Mrs. Chillip,' he proceeded, in the\ncalmest and slowest manner, 'quite electrified me, by pointing out\nthat Mr. Murdstone sets up an image of himself, and calls it the Divine\nNature. You might have knocked me down on the flat of my back, sir,\nwith the feather of a pen, I assure you, when Mrs. Chillip said so. The\nladies are great observers, sir?' 'Intuitively,' said I, to his extreme delight. 'I am very happy to receive such support in my opinion, sir,' he\nrejoined. 'It is not often that I venture to give a non-medical opinion,\nI assure you. Mr. Murdstone delivers public addresses sometimes, and it\nis said,--in short, sir, it is said by Mrs. Chillip,--that the darker\ntyrant he has lately been, the more ferocious is his doctrine.' 'I believe Mrs. Chillip to be perfectly right,' said I. 'Mrs. Chillip does go so far as to say,' pursued the meekest of little\nmen, much encouraged, 'that what such people miscall their religion, is\na vent for their bad humours and arrogance. And do you know I must say,\nsir,' he continued, mildly laying his head on one side, 'that I DON'T\nfind authority for Mr. and Miss Murdstone in the New Testament?' 'I never found it either!' said I. 'In the meantime, sir,' said Mr. Chillip, 'they are much disliked;\nand as they are very free in consigning everybody who dislikes them\nto perdition, we really have a good deal of perdition going on in\nour neighbourhood! However, as Mrs. Chillip says, sir, they undergo a\ncontinual punishment; for they are turned inward, to feed upon their own\nhearts, and their own hearts are very bad feeding. Now, sir, about that\nbrain of yours, if you'll excuse my returning to it. Don't you expose it\nto a good deal of excitement, sir?' I found it not difficult, in the excitement of Mr. Chillip's own brain,\nunder his potations of negus, to divert his attention from this topic\nto his own affairs, on which, for the next half-hour, he was quite\nloquacious; giving me to understand, among other pieces of information,\nthat he was then at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house to lay his professional\nevidence before a Commission of Lunacy, touching the state of mind of a\npatient who had become deranged from excessive drinking. 'And I assure\nyou, sir,' he said, 'I am extremely nervous on such occasions. I could\nnot support being what is called Bullied, sir. It would quite unman\nme. Do you know it was some time before I recovered the conduct of that\nalarming lady, on the night of your birth, Mr. Copperfield?' I told him that I was going down to my aunt, the Dragon of that night,\nearly in the morning; and that she was one of the most tender-hearted\nand excellent of women, as he would know full well if he knew her\nbetter. The mere notion of the possibility of his ever seeing her again,\nappeared to terrify him. He replied with a small pale smile, 'Is she so,\nindeed, sir? Really?' and almost immediately called for a candle, and\nwent to bed, as if he were not quite safe anywhere else. He did not\nactually stagger under the negus; but I should think his placid little\npulse must have made two or three more beats in a minute, than it had\ndone since the great night of my aunt's disappointment, when she struck\nat him with her bonnet. Thoroughly tired, I went to bed too, at midnight; passed the next day on\nthe Dover coach; burst safe and sound into my aunt's old parlour while\nshe was at tea (she wore spectacles now); and was received by her, and\nMr. Dick, and dear old Peggotty, who acted as housekeeper, with open\narms and tears of joy. My aunt was mightily amused, when we began to\ntalk composedly, by my account of my meeting with Mr. Chillip, and of\nhis holding her in such dread remembrance; and both she and Peggotty\nhad a great deal to say about my poor mother's second husband, and 'that\nmurdering woman of a sister',--on whom I think no pain or penalty would\nhave induced my aunt to bestow any Christian or Proper Name, or any\nother designation. My aunt and I, when we were left alone, talked far into the night. How\nthe emigrants never wrote home, otherwise than cheerfully and hopefully;\nhow Mr. Micawber had actually remitted divers small sums of money, on\naccount of those 'pecuniary liabilities', in reference to which he had\nbeen so business-like as between man and man; how Janet, returning into\nmy aunt's service when she came back to Dover, had finally carried out\nher renunciation of mankind by entering into wedlock with a thriving\ntavern-keeper; and how my aunt had finally set her seal on the same\ngreat principle, by aiding and abetting the bride, and crowning the\nmarriage-ceremony with her presence; were among our topics--already\nmore or less familiar to me through the letters I had had. Mr. Dick,\nas usual, was not forgotten. My aunt informed me how he incessantly\noccupied himself in copying everything he could lay his hands on, and\nkept King Charles the First at a respectful distance by that semblance\nof employment; how it was one of the main joys and rewards of her life\nthat he was free and happy, instead of pining in monotonous restraint;\nand how (as a novel general conclusion) nobody but she could ever fully\nknow what he was. 'And when, Trot,' said my aunt, patting the back of my hand, as we sat\nin our old way before the fire, 'when are you going over to Canterbury?' 'I shall get a horse, and ride over tomorrow morning, aunt, unless you\nwill go with me?' 'No!' said my aunt, in her short abrupt way. 'I mean to stay where I\nam.' Then, I should ride, I said. I could not have come through Canterbury\ntoday without stopping, if I had been coming to anyone but her. She was pleased, but answered, 'Tut, Trot; MY old bones would have\nkept till tomorrow!' and softly patted my hand again, as I sat looking\nthoughtfully at the fire. Thoughtfully, for I could not be here once more, and so near Agnes,\nwithout the revival of those regrets with which I had so long been\noccupied. Softened regrets they might be, teaching me what I had failed\nto learn when my younger life was all before me, but not the less\nregrets. 'Oh, Trot,' I seemed to hear my aunt say once more; and I\nunderstood her better now--'Blind, blind, blind!' We both kept silence for some minutes. When I raised my eyes, I found\nthat she was steadily observant of me. Perhaps she had followed the\ncurrent of my mind; for it seemed to me an easy one to track now, wilful\nas it had been once. 'You will find her father a white-haired old man,' said my aunt, 'though\na better man in all other respects--a reclaimed man. Neither will you\nfind him measuring all human interests, and joys, and sorrows, with his\none poor little inch-rule now.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-08 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Trust me, child, such things must shrink\nvery much, before they can be measured off in that way.' 'Indeed they must,' said I. 'You will find her,' pursued my aunt, 'as good, as beautiful, as\nearnest, as disinterested, as she has always been. If I knew higher\npraise, Trot, I would bestow it on her.' There was no higher praise for her; no higher reproach for me. Oh, how\nhad I strayed so far away! 'If she trains the young girls whom she has about her, to be like\nherself,' said my aunt, earnest even to the filling of her eyes with\ntears, 'Heaven knows, her life will be well employed! Useful and happy,\nas she said that day! How could she be otherwise than useful and happy!' 'Has Agnes any--' I was thinking aloud, rather than speaking. 'Well? Hey? Any what?' said my aunt, sharply. 'Any lover,' said I. 'A score,' cried my aunt, with a kind of indignant pride. 'She might\nhave married twenty times, my dear, since you have been gone!' 'No doubt,' said I. 'No doubt. But has she any lover who is worthy of\nher? Agnes could care for no other.' My aunt sat musing for a little while, with her chin upon her hand. Slowly raising her eyes to mine, she said:\n\n'I suspect she has an attachment, Trot.' 'A prosperous one?' said I. 'Trot,' returned my aunt gravely, 'I can't say. I have no right to tell\nyou even so much. She has never confided it to me, but I suspect it.' She looked so attentively and anxiously at me (I even saw her tremble),\nthat I felt now, more than ever, that she had followed my late thoughts. I summoned all the resolutions I had made, in all those many days and\nnights, and all those many conflicts of my heart. 'If it should be so,' I began, 'and I hope it is-'\n\n'I don't know that it is,' said my aunt curtly. 'You must not be ruled\nby my suspicions. You must keep them secret. They are very slight,\nperhaps. I have no right to speak.' 'If it should be so,' I repeated, 'Agnes will tell me at her own good\ntime. A sister to whom I have confided so much, aunt, will not be\nreluctant to confide in me.' My aunt withdrew her eyes from mine, as slowly as she had turned them\nupon me; and covered them thoughtfully with her hand. By and by she\nput her other hand on my shoulder; and so we both sat, looking into the\npast, without saying another word, until we parted for the night. I rode away, early in the morning, for the scene of my old school-days. I cannot say that I was yet quite happy, in the hope that I was gaining\na victory over myself; even in the prospect of so soon looking on her\nface again. The well-remembered ground was soon traversed, and I came into the quiet\nstreets, where every stone was a boy's book to me. I went on foot to the\nold house, and went away with a heart too full to enter. I returned; and\nlooking, as I passed, through the low window of the turret-room where\nfirst Uriah Heep, and afterwards Mr. Micawber, had been wont to sit,\nsaw that it was a little parlour now, and that there was no office. Otherwise the staid old house was, as to its cleanliness and order,\nstill just as it had been when I first saw it. I requested the new maid\nwho admitted me, to tell Miss Wickfield that a gentleman who waited on\nher from a friend abroad, was there; and I was shown up the grave old\nstaircase (cautioned of the steps I knew so well), into the unchanged\ndrawing-room. The books that Agnes and I had read together, were on\ntheir shelves; and the desk where I had laboured at my lessons, many\na night, stood yet at the same old corner of the table. All the little\nchanges that had crept in when the Heeps were there, were changed again. Everything was as it used to be, in the happy time. I stood in a window, and looked across the ancient street at the\nopposite houses, recalling how I had watched them on wet afternoons,\nwhen I first came there; and how I had used to speculate about the\npeople who appeared at any of the windows, and had followed them with my\neyes up and down stairs, while women went clicking along the pavement in\npattens, and the dull rain fell in slanting lines, and poured out of the\nwater-spout yonder, and flowed into the road. The feeling with which\nI used to watch the tramps, as they came into the town on those wet\nevenings, at dusk, and limped past, with their bundles drooping over\ntheir shoulders at the ends of sticks, came freshly back to me; fraught,\nas then, with the smell of damp earth, and wet leaves and briar, and the\nsensation of the very airs that blew upon me in my own toilsome journey. The opening of the little door in the panelled wall made me start and\nturn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as she came towards me. She\nstopped and laid her hand upon her bosom, and I caught her in my arms. 'Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon you.' 'No, no! I am so rejoiced to see you, Trotwood!' 'Dear Agnes, the happiness it is to me, to see you once again!' I folded her to my heart, and, for a little while, we were both silent. Presently we sat down, side by side; and her angel-face was turned upon\nme with the welcome I had dreamed of, waking and sleeping, for whole\nyears. She was so true, she was so beautiful, she was so good,--I owed her so\nmuch gratitude, she was so dear to me, that I could find no utterance\nfor what I felt. I tried to bless her, tried to thank her, tried to tell\nher (as I had often done in letters) what an influence she had upon me;\nbut all my efforts were in vain. My love and joy were dumb. With her own sweet tranquillity, she calmed my agitation; led me back to\nthe time of our parting; spoke to me of Emily, whom she had visited,\nin secret, many times; spoke to me tenderly of Dora's grave. With the\nunerring instinct of her noble heart, she touched the chords of my\nmemory so softly and harmoniously, that not one jarred within me; I\ncould listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to shrink from\nnothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended with it all, was her dear\nself, the better angel of my life? 'And you, Agnes,' I said, by and by. 'Tell me of yourself. You have\nhardly ever told me of your own life, in all this lapse of time!' 'What should I tell?' she answered, with her radiant smile. 'Papa is\nwell. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our anxieties set at rest,\nour home restored to us; and knowing that, dear Trotwood, you know all.' 'All, Agnes?' said I. She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her face. 'Is there nothing else, Sister?' I said. Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and faded again. She\nsmiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and shook her head. I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for, sharply\npainful to me as it must be to receive that confidence, I was to\ndiscipline my heart, and do my duty to her. I saw, however, that she was\nuneasy, and I let it pass. 'You have much to do, dear Agnes?' 'With my school?' said she, looking up again, in all her bright\ncomposure. 'Yes. It is laborious, is it not?' 'The labour is so pleasant,' she returned, 'that it is scarcely grateful\nin me to call it by that name.' 'Nothing good is difficult to you,' said I. Her colour came and went once more; and once more, as she bent her head,\nI saw the same sad smile. 'You will wait and see papa,' said Agnes, cheerfully, 'and pass the\nday with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own room? We always call it\nyours.' I could not do that, having promised to ride back to my aunt's at night;\nbut I would pass the day there, joyfully. 'I must be a prisoner for a little while,' said Agnes, 'but here are the\nold books, Trotwood, and the old music.'\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-08, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-10 The user is reading a book]\n<User> 'Even the old flowers are here,' said I, looking round; 'or the old\nkinds.' 'I have found a pleasure,' returned Agnes, smiling, 'while you have been\nabsent, in keeping everything as it used to be when we were children. For we were very happy then, I think.' 'Heaven knows we were!' said I. 'And every little thing that has reminded me of my brother,' said Agnes,\nwith her cordial eyes turned cheerfully upon me, 'has been a welcome\ncompanion. Even this,' showing me the basket-trifle, full of keys, still\nhanging at her side, 'seems to jingle a kind of old tune!' She smiled again, and went out at the door by which she had come. It was for me to guard this sisterly affection with religious care. It\nwas all that I had left myself, and it was a treasure. If I once shook\nthe foundations of the sacred confidence and usage, in virtue of which\nit was given to me, it was lost, and could never be recovered. I set\nthis steadily before myself. The better I loved her, the more it behoved\nme never to forget it. I walked through the streets; and, once more seeing my old adversary the\nbutcher--now a constable, with his staff hanging up in the shop--went\ndown to look at the place where I had fought him; and there meditated\non Miss Shepherd and the eldest Miss Larkins, and all the idle loves and\nlikings, and dislikings, of that time. Nothing seemed to have survived\nthat time but Agnes; and she, ever a star above me, was brighter and\nhigher. When I returned, Mr. Wickfield had come home, from a garden he had, a\ncouple of miles or so out of town, where he now employed himself almost\nevery day. I found him as my aunt had described him. We sat down to\ndinner, with some half-dozen little girls; and he seemed but the shadow\nof his handsome picture on the wall. The tranquillity and peace belonging, of old, to that quiet ground in my\nmemory, pervaded it again. When dinner was done, Mr. Wickfield taking no\nwine, and I desiring none, we went up-stairs; where Agnes and her little\ncharges sang and played, and worked. After tea the children left us; and\nwe three sat together, talking of the bygone days. 'My part in them,' said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white head, 'has much\nmatter for regret--for deep regret, and deep contrition, Trotwood, you\nwell know. But I would not cancel it, if it were in my power.' I could readily believe that, looking at the face beside him. 'I should cancel with it,' he pursued, 'such patience and devotion, such\nfidelity, such a child's love, as I must not forget, no! even to forget\nmyself.' 'I understand you, sir,' I softly said. 'I hold it--I have always held\nit--in veneration.' 'But no one knows, not even you,' he returned, 'how much she has done,\nhow much she has undergone, how hard she has striven. Dear Agnes!' She had put her hand entreatingly on his arm, to stop him; and was very,\nvery pale. 'Well, well!' he said with a sigh, dismissing, as I then saw, some trial\nshe had borne, or was yet to bear, in connexion with what my aunt had\ntold me. 'Well! I have never told you, Trotwood, of her mother. Has\nanyone?' 'Never, sir.' 'It's not much--though it was much to suffer. She married me in\nopposition to her father's wish, and he renounced her. She prayed him\nto forgive her, before my Agnes came into this world. He was a very hard\nman, and her mother had long been dead. He repulsed her. He broke her\nheart.' Agnes leaned upon his shoulder, and stole her arm about his neck. 'She had an affectionate and gentle heart,' he said; 'and it was broken. I knew its tender nature very well. No one could, if I did not. She\nloved me dearly, but was never happy. She was always labouring, in\nsecret, under this distress; and being delicate and downcast at the time\nof his last repulse--for it was not the first, by many--pined away\nand died. She left me Agnes, two weeks old; and the grey hair that you\nrecollect me with, when you first came.' He kissed Agnes on her cheek. 'My love for my dear child was a diseased love, but my mind was all\nunhealthy then. I say no more of that. I am not speaking of myself,\nTrotwood, but of her mother, and of her. If I give you any clue to what\nI am, or to what I have been, you will unravel it, I know. What Agnes\nis, I need not say. I have always read something of her poor mother's\nstory, in her character; and so I tell it you tonight, when we three are\nagain together, after such great changes. I have told it all.' His bowed head, and her angel-face and filial duty, derived a more\npathetic meaning from it than they had had before. If I had wanted\nanything by which to mark this night of our re-union, I should have\nfound it in this. Agnes rose up from her father's side, before long; and going softly to\nher piano, played some of the old airs to which we had often listened in\nthat place. 'Have you any intention of going away again?' Agnes asked me, as I was\nstanding by. 'What does my sister say to that?' 'I hope not.' 'Then I have no such intention, Agnes.' 'I think you ought not, Trotwood, since you ask me,' she said, mildly. 'Your growing reputation and success enlarge your power of doing good;\nand if I could spare my brother,' with her eyes upon me, 'perhaps the\ntime could not.' 'What I am, you have made me, Agnes. You should know best.' 'I made you, Trotwood?' 'Yes! Agnes, my dear girl!' I said, bending over her. 'I tried to tell\nyou, when we met today, something that has been in my thoughts since\nDora died. You remember, when you came down to me in our little\nroom--pointing upward, Agnes?' 'Oh, Trotwood!' she returned, her eyes filled with tears. 'So loving, so\nconfiding, and so young! Can I ever forget?' 'As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since, you have ever\nbeen to me. Ever pointing upward, Agnes; ever leading me to something\nbetter; ever directing me to higher things!' She only shook her head; through her tears I saw the same sad quiet\nsmile. 'And I am so grateful to you for it, Agnes, so bound to you, that there\nis no name for the affection of my heart. I want you to know, yet don't\nknow how to tell you, that all my life long I shall look up to you,\nand be guided by you, as I have been through the darkness that is past. Whatever betides, whatever new ties you may form, whatever changes may\ncome between us, I shall always look to you, and love you, as I do now,\nand have always done. You will always be my solace and resource, as you\nhave always been. Until I die, my dearest sister, I shall see you always\nbefore me, pointing upward!' She put her hand in mine, and told me she was proud of me, and of what I\nsaid; although I praised her very far beyond her worth. Then she went\non softly playing, but without removing her eyes from me. 'Do you know,\nwhat I have heard tonight, Agnes,' said I, strangely seems to be a part\nof the feeling with which I regarded you when I saw you first--with\nwhich I sat beside you in my rough school-days?' 'You knew I had no mother,' she replied with a smile, 'and felt kindly\ntowards me.' 'More than that, Agnes, I knew, almost as if I had known this story,\nthat there was something inexplicably gentle and softened, surrounding\nyou; something that might have been sorrowful in someone else (as I can\nnow understand it was), but was not so in you.' She softly played on, looking at me still. 'Will you laugh at my cherishing such fancies, Agnes?' 'No!' 'Or at my saying that I really believe I felt, even then, that you could\nbe faithfully affectionate against all discouragement, and never cease\nto be so, until you ceased to live?---Will you laugh at such a dream?' 'Oh, no! Oh, no!'\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-10, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-11 The user is reading a book]\n<User> For an instant, a distressful shadow crossed her face; but, even in the\nstart it gave me, it was gone; and she was playing on, and looking at me\nwith her own calm smile. As I rode back in the lonely night, the wind going by me like a restless\nmemory, I thought of this, and feared she was not happy. I was not\nhappy; but, thus far, I had faithfully set the seal upon the Past, and,\nthinking of her, pointing upward, thought of her as pointing to that\nsky above me, where, in the mystery to come, I might yet love her with\na love unknown on earth, and tell her what the strife had been within me\nwhen I loved her here.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-11, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-11", "answer": "David, London, wintry autumn evening, surprise visit, Gray's Inn Coffee-house, Traddles, Sophy, marriage, Sophy's five sisters, law practice, Mr. Chillip, family doctor, Mr. Murdstone, second wife, melancholy mad, Miss Betsey Trotwood, cottage, Mr. Dick, Peggotty, reunion, Agnes, Canterbury, horseback travel, suitors, attachment, Mr. Wickfield, marriage mistakes, affectionate heart, gratefulness, memories, unhappiness, love for Agnes"}]