In a back room, a
high-shouldered man with a face-ache tied up in dirty flannel, who
was dressed in old black clothes that bore the appearance of having
been waxed, was stooping over his work of making fair copies of the
notes of the other two gentlemen, for Mr. Jaggers's own use.
This was all the establishment. When we went down stairs again,
Wemmick led me into my guardian's room, and said, "This you've seen
already."
"Pray," said I, as the two odious casts with the twitchy leer upon
them caught my sight again, "whose likenesses are those?"
"These?" said Wemmick, getting upon a chair, and blowing the dust
off the horrible heads before bringing them down. "These are two
celebrated ones. Famous clients of ours that got us a world of
credit. This chap (why you must have come down in the night and
been peeping into the inkstand, to get this blot upon your eyebrow,
you old rascal!) murdered his master, and, considering that he
wasn't brought up to evidence, didn't plan it badly."
"Is it like him?" I asked, recoiling from the brute, as Wemmick
spat upon his eyebrow and gave it a rub with his sleeve.
"Like him? It's himself, you know. The cast was made in Newgate,
directly after he was taken down. You had a particular fancy for
me, hadn't you, Old Artful?" said Wemmick.
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