Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the abstract, he is here to-day and gone to-morrow--but, very unlike man indeed, he is here again the next day. This evening he will be casually looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir Leicester Dedlock's house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walking on the leads at Chesney Wold, where erst the old man walked whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks, pockets, all things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A few hours afterwards, he and the Roman will be alone together comparing forefingers.
It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with home enjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not go home. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs. Bucket--a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had been improved by professional exercise, might have done great things, but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur--he holds himself aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent on their lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an interest) for companionship and conversation.

Mr. Bucket is here today and gone tomorrow - and then here again the next day. This evening he will be casually looking past the door of Sir Leicester Dedlock's house in town; and tomorrow morning he will be walking on the turrets at Chesney Wold, where once the deceased old man walked. Drawers, desks, pockets, all things belonging to Tulkinghorn, Mr. Bucket examines.
Mr. Bucket at present does not go home. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs. Bucket - a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had been improved by professional exercise, might have done great things, but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur - he holds himself aloof for now. Mrs. Bucket is dependent on their lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an interest) for companionship.
