Excerpt from Fatal Zero by Charles Dickens

ALL THE YEAR ROUND, VOLUME I

How curious this dark country looks roaring by the window with the glare and flash from a station. The dull burr of the train, and the lights from the windows dappling the ground. As I look out I see the small dark figure of the guard creeping along outside. In this situation, in my lonely blue chamber, there is a sort of vacuity for thought, the world is shut out and the pictures of the past pour in ...

Was it not a very stately place—a newcastle, grand stabling, horses and carriages in profusion, as I was shown into the great drawing-room, and received with welcome by the hostess. The guests were all out, shooting, riding, walking, and—so unfortunate she says—lunch was over. The young ladies were in the garden, where we would go and look for them. Stay; no, here they were coming, and past the mullioned windows, which ran down to the ground, flitted two or three figures, led by a little scarlet cloak. In a second cheerful voices rang out like music; the door opened, and she came tripping in. I did not see the others. I do not know who they were to this moment; but was it not then, my dear foolish Austen, that everything fell in like a house of cards—that the glory passed away from the books and never returned?

Her name was Dora—a pretty and melodious one; she was small, elegantly made, and with dancing eyes, bright sloe black hair, and a look of refinement about her small features I have never seen in anyone else. She was full of spirits, and laughter, and delight. I recollect to this moment how I was introduced, with what a coquettish solemnity she went through the ceremony, and how, as I bowed, I felt something whisper to me, This is an important moment for you, sir...
She was daughter to a great House in the neighbourhood. From that hour she unconsciously entered into my life. She little thought how her airy figure was to hover about my study, and of how many day dreams she was to be the centre. So do the years go by; yet that dull blue cloth before me seems to open and draw away, and show me that gay noonday and that"morning room" at—— House as distinctly as if it were yesterday.

In my pocket-book I have at this moment a picture of her, done, not by the fanciful touch of memory, but by, perhaps, the less enduring one of the camera. It is hard to see by this light. Yes, there she is, a cloud of white sweeping behind her, flowers in her hand, with a soft inquiring look, half serious, and that seems on the verge of breaking into a smile, and spoiling the operator's whole work. So I saw her then, so I see her now. What if I was never to see her again! But this is too lugubrious! ...