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Mara was dead to begin with. There's no doubt, whatever about that. The register of his barrier was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker and the chief mourner. Screwed signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon change for anything he chose to put his hand to old Marley was as dead as a doornail mind. I don't mean to say that I know of my own knowledge. What there is particularly dead about a doornail might have been inclined myself to regard a coffin. Nail is the deadest piece of iron monger in a trade, but the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile, and Bayan hollowed hands shall not disturb it or the country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat emphatically that Marley Wass is dead as a doornail. Scrooge knew he was dead. Of course he did. How could it be otherwise screwed on? Here were partners for I don't know how many as screwed. What is So execute her. His sole administrator is so assigned his son residual rate. Leggo tea is so friend and so mourner and even screwed was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral and solemnised it with undoubted bargain. The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Mara is dead. This must be distinctly understood or nothing wonderful couldn't come from the storey. I'm going to a late if we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's father died before the play began. There had been nothing more remarkable, and it's taking a stroll at night in an easterly wind upon his own Ram Bart. Then there would be in any other middle aged gentleman rashly turning out after dog and a breezy spot. They say Paul's churchyard, for instance, literally to astonish his son's weak mind. School's never painted out old Marley's name. There it stood years afterwards, above the warehouse door. Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as schooled in Mali. Sometimes people new to the business called schools screwed and sometimes Molly. But he answered to both names. Wasel the same to him. Oh, but he was a tightfisted hand at the grindstone Scrooge, a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner hard and shoppers flint from which new steal on of a stroke out generous fire secret and self contained and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze. His old features nipped his pointed nose shrivelled his cheek stiffened, his gait made his eyes red. His thin lips blue aunt spoke out truly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head and on his eyebrows and his wiry chin, you carried his own low temperature. Always about with him. He iced his office in the dog days on. Didn't thought one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold and little influence on schooled. No warmth could warm. No wintry weather. Chill him. No, wouldn't that blue was better than he? No falling snow was more intent upon its purpose. No pelting rain, less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain and snow and hail and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often came down handsomely and screwed. Never did Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say with glance Um looks my dear Screwed. How are you? When will you come to see me. No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle. No Children asked him what it was. A clock, no man or woman, Never once in all his life and quiet the way to such and such a place of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him, and when they saw him coming on, Wood took their owners into doorways and up court and then would wag their tails as though they said no. I, a tall, is better than an evil eye, dark master. But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked to end his way alone, too crowded parts of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance was what the knowing ones call Knots to Scrooge. Once upon a time of all the good days in the air on Christmas Eve. Old Scrooge such busy in his counting house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather for *** with R, and he could hear the people in the court outside go whizzing up and down, beating their hands upon their breast on stamping their feet upon the pavement, stones to warm them. Pacific clocks had only just gone. Three but it was quite dark already. It had not been light all day, and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices like woody smears on the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every *** and keyhole and was so dense without that, although the court was off the ladder, wrist and houses opposite were mere phantoms to see the didn't you cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything. One might have thought that nature lived hard by it was brewing on a large scale. The door's Scrooges counting house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who a dismal little cell beyond sort of tank was copying letters. Screwed had a very small fire, but the clerks fire was so very much smaller than had looked like one cool, but he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the cold box in his own room, and so sure as the clerk came in with a shovel, the master predicted it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the club put on his white comforter and tried to warm himself at the candle, in which effort not being a man of strong imagination. He failed a merry Christmas, Uncle. God save you cried A cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew who came upon him so quickly and that this was the first intimation I had of his approach. Bar said Scrooge, humbug! He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost this nephew of Scrooges that he was all in a glow. His face was ruddy and handsome. His eyes sparkled in his breath. Smoked again. Christmas A humbug uncle said, Scrooge is a few. You don't mean that. I'm sure I do. Said screwed. Merry Christmas. What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough! Come then, return the nephew girlie! What right have you to be? It is more. What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough, Screwed! Having new better hands ready on the spot of the moment Said back again and fold it up with humbug! Don't be cross Uncle said the nephew. What else can I be returned? The young girl. When I live in such a world of fools as this Merry Christmas out upon Merry Christmas! What's Christmastime to you, but a time for paying bills without money. A time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer. A time for balancing your books and having every item in them through a round of dozen months presented dead against your if I could work by wheel, said Scrooge indignantly. Every idiot who goes about with Merry Christmas on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding on buried with a stake of Holly through his heart. He should Uncle pleaded the nephew. No fuel. Return the uncle sternly. Keep Christmas in your own way and let me keep it in mine. Keep it repeated Scrooge's nephew.