“Ah-h-h!” growled the journeyman, between his teeth, “I’d hold you, if you was my wife.  I’d hold you under the pump, and choke it out of you.”

("I tell you, let her alone,” said Joe.)

“Oh!  To hear him!” cried my sister, with a clap of her hands and a scream together — which was her next stage.  “To hear the names he’s giving me!  That Orlick!  In my own house!  Me, a married woman!  With my husband standing by!  O!  O!” Here my sister, after a fit of clappings and screamings, beat her hands upon her bosom and upon her knees, and threw her cap off, and pulled her hair down — which were the last stages on her road to frenzy.  Being by this time a perfect Fury and a complete success, she made a dash at the door, which I had fortunately locked.

What could the wretched Joe do now, after his disregarded parenthetical interruptions, but stand up to his journeyman, and ask him what he meant by interfering betwixt himself and Mrs. Joe; and further whether he was man enough to come on?  Old Orlick felt that the situation admitted of nothing less than coming on, and was on his defence straightway; so, without so much as pulling off their singed and burnt aprons, they went at one another, like two giants.  But, if any man in that neighbourhood could stand up long against Joe, I never saw the man.  Orlick, as if he had been of no more account than the pale young gentleman, was very soon among the coal-dust, and in no hurry to come out of it.  Then, Joe unlocked the door and picked up my sister, who had dropped insensible at the window (but who had seen the fight first, I think), and who was carried into the house and laid down, and who was recommended to revive, and would do nothing but struggle and clench her hands in Joe’s hair.  Then, came that singular calm and silence which succeed all uproars; and then, with the vague sensation which I have always connected with such a lull — namely, that it was Sunday, and somebody was dead — I went up-stairs to dress myself.

When I came down again, I found Joe and Orlick sweeping up, without any other traces of discomposure than a slit in one of Orlick’s nostrils, which was neither expressive nor ornamental.  A pot of beer had appeared from the Jolly Bargemen, and they were sharing it by turns in a peaceable manner.  The lull had a sedative and philosophical influence on Joe, who followed me out into the road to say, as a parting observation that might do me good, “On the Rampage, Pip, and off the Rampage, Pip — such is Life!”

With what absurd emotions (for, we think the feelings that are very serious in a man quite comical in a boy) I found myself again going to Miss Havisham’s, matters little here.  Nor, how I passed and repassed the gate many times before I could make up my mind to ring.  Nor, how I debated whether I should go away without ringing; nor, how I should undoubtedly have gone, if my time had been my own, to come back.