Book the First: Poverty Chapter 8 The Lock

'Pray, sir,' said Arthur, repeating his question, 'what is this place?'

'Ay! This place?' returned the old man, staying his pinch of snuff on
its road, and pointing at the place without looking at it. 'This is the
Marshalsea, sir.' 'The debtors' prison?'

'Sir,' said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessary
to insist upon that designation, 'the debtors' prison.' He turned himself about, and went on. 'I beg your pardon,' said Arthur, stopping him once more, 'but will you
allow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?'

'Any one can go IN,' replied the old man; plainly adding by the
significance of his emphasis, 'but it is not every one who can go out.' 'Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?' 'Sir,' returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in his
hand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him.
'I am.' 'I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have a good
object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?'

'My name, sir,' replied the old man most unexpectedly, 'is Dorrit.'

Arthur pulled off his hat to him. 'Grant me the favour of half-a-dozen
words. I was wholly unprepared for your announcement, and hope that
assurance is my sufficient apology for having taken the liberty of
addressing you. I have recently come home to England after a long
absence. I have seen at my mother's--Mrs Clennam in the city--a young
woman working at her needle, whom I have only heard addressed or spoken
of as Little Dorrit. I have felt sincerely interested in her, and have
had a great desire to know something more about her. I saw her, not a
minute before you came up, pass in at that door.'