“Well!” cried Mr. Jarndyce, stopping again, and making several absent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. “I⁠—here! Take it away, my dear. I don’t know what I am about with it; it’s all the wind⁠—invariably has that effect⁠—I won’t press you, Rick; you may be right. But really⁠—to get hold of you and Esther⁠—and to squeeze you like a couple of tender young Saint Michael’s oranges! It’ll blow a gale in the course of the night!”

He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets as if he were going to keep them there a long time, and taking them out again and vehemently rubbing them all over his head.

I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr. Skimpole, being in all such matters quite a child⁠—

“Eh, my dear?” said Mr. Jarndyce, catching at the word.