‘What, John?’
‘Lord,’ said Young John, appealing with a gasp to the spikes on the wall. ‘He says, What!’
Clennam looked at the spikes, and looked at John; and looked at the spikes, and looked at John.
‘He says What! And what is more,’ exclaimed Young John, surveying him in a doleful maze, ‘he appears to mean it! Do you see this window, sir?’
‘Of course I see this window.’
‘See this room?’
‘Why, of course I see this room.’
‘That wall opposite, and that yard down below? They have all been witnesses of it, from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from month to month. For how often have I seen Miss Dorrit here when she has not seen me!’
‘Witnesses of what?’ said Clennam.
‘Of Miss Dorrit’s love.’