Fiction  |  Charles Dickens  |  Martin Chuzzlewit  |  Chapter 10

Martin Chuzzlewit — Chapter 10 (Part 11 of 11)

Eighteen shillings a week! Just, most just, thy censure, upright Pecksniff! Had it been for the sake of a ribbon, star, or garter; sleeves of lawn, a great man's smile, a seat in parliament, a tap upon the shoulder from a courtly sword; a place, a party, or a thriving lie, or eighteen thousand pounds, or even eighteen hundred;--but to worship the golden calf for eighteen shillings a week! Oh pitiful, pitiful!