"Thou art a bold friar," said the warder, "to come hither, where, saving our own drunken confessor, a cock of thy feather hath not crowed these twenty years."

“It’s very difficult to know what people are like,” Rachel remarked, and Helen saw with pleasure that she spoke more naturally. “I suppose I was taken in.”

‘To go with you—anywhere—everywhere—to the world’s end—to the churchyard grave,’ replied Smike, clinging to his hand. ‘Let me, oh do let me. You are my home—my kind friend—take me with you, pray.’