“Thus”—said Mr. Dombey, “thus it is I crush a viper.” His wild, big, grey eyes were fixed, yet flashing,—his long gaunt form worked and quivered like a galvanized corpse,—his face was as the face of a roasting demon!
Nobody saw anything of Carker but his teeth: yet from these teeth issued a hissing sound of “now.”
Could it be? It could! It was! Four policemen sprung from under the table and held four staffs up to Mr. Dombey’s nose!
“Now,” said the Teeth, “remove that man.”
Dombey stood like a statue carved out of Parian marble, but dressed in a hat, coat, pantaloons, wellingtons, and other minor articles of costume. He waved his hand and the constables fell back.
“Remove me—remove Dombey from the counting house of Dombey and Son?”
These were the only words he spoke; then his tongue clave unto the roof or ceiling of his mouth.
The Teeth spoke not—but they held up a board, a white painted board, such as may be seen at the doors of merchants’ offices. All started. For on the board was painted:—
CARKER. LATE DOMBEY AND SON.
“Mine”—hissed the Teeth—“mine—all is mine Dombey! Dombey! you have fallen! Dombey—you’re a beggar! Dombey—here’s a penny for you! Dombey—move on!”