Passing along the Yard, and between the open doors on either hand, all abundantly garnished with light children nursing heavy ones, they arrived at its opposite boundary, the gateway.

Here Arthur Clennam stopped to look about him for the domicile of Plornish, plasterer, whose name, according to the custom of Londoners, Daniel Doyce had never seen or heard of to that hour.
It was plain enough, nevertheless, as Little Dorrit had said; over a lime-splashed gateway in the corner, within which Plornish kept a ladder and a barrel or two.

The last house in Bleeding Heart Yard which she had described as his place of habitation, was a large house, let off to various tenants; but Plornish ingeniously hinted that he lived in the parlour, by means of a painted hand under his name, the forefinger of which hand (on which the artist had depicted a ring and a most elaborate nail of the genteelest form) referred all inquirers to that apartment.
Parting from his companions, after arranging another meeting with Mr Meagles, Clennam went alone into the entry, and knocked with his knuckles at the parlour-door.

It was opened presently by a woman with a child in her arms, whose unoccupied hand was hastily rearranging the upper part of her dress.

This was Mrs Plornish, and this maternal action was the action of Mrs Plornish during a large part of her waking existence.
Was Mr Plornish at home?
'Well, sir,' said Mrs Plornish, a civil woman, 'not to deceive you, he's gone to look for a job.' 'Not to deceive you' was a method of speech with Mrs Plornish.