Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from somebody downstairs for the purpose, and having made a considerable show of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then with the other, Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of the right sort and goes on, letter in hand.
Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library within the larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores of letters every day, it happens that much correspondence is not incidental to his life. He is no great scribe, rather handling his pen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him always convenient to his grasp, and discourages correspondence with himself in others as being too artless and direct a way of doing delicate business. Further, he often sees damaging letters produced in evidence and has occasion to reflect that it was a green thing to write them. For these reasons he has very little to do with letters, either as sender or receiver. And yet he has received a round half-dozen within the last twenty-four hours.
"And this," says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table, "is in the same hand, and consists of the same two words."
What two words?
He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book (book of fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldly written in each, "Lady Dedlock."

He goes on, letter in hand.
Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to a little room in the library with the face of a man who receives scores of letters every day, his life does not involve much correspondence. He is no great scribe, and discourages letters from others as being too artless and direct a way of doing delicate business. He often sees damaging letters produced in evidence and reflects that it was naive to write them. For these reasons he has very little to do with letters, either as sender or receiver. And yet he has received half-a-dozen within the last twenty-four hours.
"And this," says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table, "is in the same hand, and consists of the same two words."
He locks the door, takes out his black pocket-book, lays another letter by it, and reads, boldly written in each: "Lady Dedlock."
