see,' observed Mr Pancks, stealing into the room by inches.
'What are those now, Miss Dorrit?'

'Handkerchiefs.'

'Are they, though!' said Pancks. 'I shouldn't have thought it.' Not in
the least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. 'Perhaps you
wonder who I am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune-teller.'

Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad.

'I belong body and soul to my proprietor,' said Pancks; 'you saw my
proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the other way,
sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.'

Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm.

'I wish you'd show me the palm of your hand,' said Pancks. 'I should
like to have a look at it. Don't let me be troublesome.' He was so far
troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she laid her work
in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand with her thimble on
it.

'Years of toil, eh?' said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt
forefinger. 'But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!' looking
into the lines. 'What's this with bars? It's a College! And what's this
with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it's a father! And what's this
with a clarionet? It's an uncle! And what's this in dancing-shoes? It's
a sister! And what's this straggling about in an idle sort of a way?
It's a brother! And what's this thinking for 'em all? Why, this is you,
Miss Dorrit!' Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his
face, and she thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a
brighter and gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His
eyes were on her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming
or correcting the impression was gone.

'Now, the deuce is in it,' muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her
hand with his clumsy finger, 'if this isn't me in the corner here! What
do I want here? What's behind me?'

He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and
affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him.

'Is it any harm?' asked Little Dorrit, smiling.

'Deuce a bit!' said Pancks. 'What do you think it's worth?'

'I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.'

'True,' said Pancks. 'What's it worth? You shall live to see, Miss
Dorrit.'

Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his
prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner;
and repeated slowly, 'R