ClosinginThelastdayoftheappointedweektouchedthebarsoftheMarshalseagate。Black，allnight，sincethegatehadclasheduponLittleDorrit，itsironstripeswereturnedbytheearly-glowingsunintostripesofgold。Faraslantacrossthecity，overitsjumbledroofs，andthroughtheopentraceryofitschurchtowers，struckthelongbrightrays，barsoftheprisonofthislowerworld。
Throughoutthedaytheoldhousewithinthegatewayremaineduntroubledbyanyvisitors。But，whenthesunwaslow，threementurnedinatthegatewayandmadeforthedilapidatedhouse。
Rigaudwasthefirst，andwalkedbyhimselfsmoking。MrBaptistwasthesecond，andjoggedcloseafterhim，lookingatnootherobject。MrPanckswasthethird，andcarriedhishatunderhisarmfortheliberationofhisrestivehair；theweatherbeingextremelyhot。Theyallcametogetheratthedoor-steps。
’Youpairofmadmen!’saidRigaud，facingabout。’Don’tgoyet!’
’Wedon’tmeanto，’saidMrPancks。