Complete Novel Great Expectations

Betimes in the morning I was up and out. It was too early yet to go to Miss Havisham’s, so I loitered into the country on Miss Havisham’s side of town – which was not Joe’s side; I could go there tomorrow – thinking about my patroness, and painting brilliant pictures of her plans for […]

It was clear that I must repair to our town next day, and in the first flow of my repentance it was equally clear that I must stay at Joe’s. But, when I had secured my box-place by tomorrow’s coach and had been down to Mr Pocket’s and back, I was not by any means

My Dear Mr Pip,I write this by request of Mr Gargery, for to let you know that he is going to London in company of Mr Wopsle and would be glad if agreeable to be allowed to see you. He would call at Barnard’s Hotel Tuesday morning 9 o’clock, when if not agreeable please leave

It fell out as Wemmick had told me it would, that I had an early opportunity of comparing my guardian’s establishment with that of his cashier and clerk. My guardian was in his rooms, washing his hands with his scented soap, when I went into the office from Walworth; and he called me to him,

Bentley Drummle, who was so sulky a fellow that he even took up a book as if its writer had done him an injury, did not take up an acquaintance in a more agreeable spirit. Heavy in figure, movement, and comprehension – in the sluggish complexion of his face, and in the large awkward tongue

After two or three days, when I had established myself in my room, and had gone backwards and forwards to London several times, and had ordered all I wanted of my tradesmen, Mr Pocket and I had a long talk together. He knew more of my intended career than I knew myself, for he referred

Mr Pocket said he was glad to see me, and he hoped I was not sorry to see him. ‘For, I really am not,’ he added, with his son’s smile, ‘an alarming personage.’ He was a young-looking man, in spite of his perplexities and his very gray hair, and his manner seemed quite natural. I

The pale young gentleman and I stood contemplating one another in Barnard’s Inn, until we both burst out laughing. ‘The idea of its being you!’ said he. ‘The idea of its being you!’ said I. And then we contemplated one another afresh, and laughed again. ‘Well!’ said the pale young gentleman, reaching out his hand

Casting my eyes on Mr Wemmick as we went along, to see what he was like in the light of day, I found him to be a dry man, rather short in stature, with a square wooden face, whose expression seemed to have been imperfectly chipped out with a dull-edged chisel. There were some marks

The journey from our town to the metropolis was a journey of about five hours. It was a little past mid-day when the four-horse stage-coach by which I was a passenger got into the ravel of traffic frayed out about the Cross Keys, Wood Street, Cheapside, London.1We Britons had at that time particularly settled that

Morning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life, and brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same. What lay heaviest on my mind was the consideration that six days intervened between me and the day of departure; for I could not divest myself of a misgiving that something might happen

It was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to Joe, and it was a Saturday night. There was a group assembled round the fire at the Three Jolly Bargemen, attentive to Mr Wopsle as he read the newspaper aloud. Of that group I was one.A highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr Wopsle

I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship-life, which was varied, beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate, I found Miss Havisham

With my head full of George Barnwell, I was at first disposed to believe that I must have had some hand in the attack upon my sister, or at all events that as her near relation, popularly known to be under obligations to her, I was a more legitimate object of suspicion than anyone else.

As I was getting too big for Mr Wopsle’s great-aunt’s room, my education under that preposterous female terminated. Not, however, until Biddy had imparted to me everything she knew, from the little catalogue of prices, to a comic song she had once bought for a halfpenny. Although the only coherent part of the latter piece