“Where I live,” said Mr. Boffin, “is called The Bower. Boffin’s Bower is the name Mrs. Boffin christened it when we come into it as a property. If you should meet with anybody that don’t know it by that name (which hardly anybody does), when you’ve got nigh upon about a odd mile, or say and a quarter if you like, up Maiden Lane, Battle Bridge, ask for Harmony Jail, and you’ll be put right. I shall expect you, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, clapping him on the shoulder with the greatest enthusiasm, “most joyfully. I shall have no peace or patience till you come. Print is now opening ahead of me. This night, a literary man⁠— with a wooden leg⁠—” he bestowed an admiring look upon that decoration, as if it greatly enhanced the relish of Mr. Wegg’s attainments⁠—“will begin to lead me a new life! My fist again, Wegg. Morning, morning, morning!”