His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was quiet.
“I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour,” he said, going to them again, “and let them play about. I didn’t mean to say all this, but it don’t much signify. You’re not afraid of me, Tom, are you?”
“No!” said Tom. “You ain’t angry with me .”
“You are right, my child. You’re going back, Charley? Aye? Come then, little one!” He took the youngest child on his arm, where she was willing enough to be carried. “I shouldn’t wonder if we found a gingerbread soldier downstairs. Let’s go and look for him!”
He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in a certain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce, and bowing slightly to us, went downstairs to his room.
Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time since our arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was really very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes. Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust will and surprising energy—intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious blacksmith—and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was, years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his superfluous combativeness upon—a sort of Young Love among the thorns—when the Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodated him with the exact thing he wanted. There