Good day!" When we had shaken hands and he was gone, I opened the staircase window and had nearly beheaded myself, for, the lines had rotted away, and it came down like the guillotine.

Happily it was so quick that I had not put my head out.

After this escape, I was content to take a foggy view of the Inn through the window's encrusting dirt, and to stand dolefully looking out, saying to myself that London was decidedly overrated.
Mr.Pocket, Junior's, idea of Shortly was not mine, for I had nearly maddened myself with looking out for half an hour, and had written my name with my finger several times in the dirt of every pane in the window, before I heard footsteps on the stairs.

Gradually there arose before me the hat, head, neckcloth, waistcoat, trousers, boots, of a member of society of about my own standing.

He had a paper-bag under each arm and a pottle of strawberries in one hand, and was out of breath.
"Mr.Pip ?" said he.
"Mr.Pocket ?" said I.
"Dear me!" he exclaimed.