“Winkle⁠—Snodgrass,” said Mr. Pickwick; “what does this mean? Where is our friend? What has happened? Speak⁠—I conjure, I entreat⁠—nay, I command you, speak.”

There was a solemnity⁠—a dignity⁠—in Mr. Pickwick’s manner, not to be withstood.

“He is gone,” said Mr. Snodgrass.

“Gone!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. “Gone!”

“Gone,” repeated Mr. Snodgrass.