How he laboured under an apprehension not uncommon to persons in
his degree, to whom the use of pen and ink is an event, that he
couldn't append his name to a document, not of his own writing,
without committing himself in some shadowy manner, or somehow
signing away vague and enormous sums of money; and how he
approached the deeds under protest, and by dint of the Doctor's
coercion, and insisted on pausing to look at them before writing
(the cramped hand, to say nothing of the phraseology, being so much
Chinese to him), and also on turning them round to see whether
there was anything fraudulent underneath; and how, having signed
his name, he became desolate as one who had parted with his
property and rights; I want the time to tell. Also, how the blue
bag containing his signature, afterwards had a mysterious interest
for him, and he couldn't leave it; also, how Clemency Newcome, in
an ecstasy of laughter at the idea of her own importance and
dignity, brooded over the whole table with her two elbows, like a
spread eagle, and reposed her head upon her left arm as a
preliminary to the formation of certain cabalistic characters,
which required a deal of ink, and imaginary counterparts whereof
she executed at the same time with her tongue. Also, how, having
once tasted ink, she became thirsty in that regard, as tame tigers
are said to be after tasting another sort of fluid, and wanted to
sign everything, and put her name in all kinds of places.
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