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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Charles Dickens

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There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner’s hand, and it was his real grasp.

 

“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!

 

There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings, and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed into it, as if they had made it all.

 

Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait, Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him, and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:

 

And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was gone.

 

“Well,” said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, “I hope you’ve been at work this morning, my dears?”

 

“No, no,” replied Fagin, “not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.”

 

“It’s only about young Twist, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry. “A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.”

 

“Surely,” said Rose, “the poor child’s story, faithfully repeated to these men, will be sufficient to exonerate him.”

 

“What mill! Why, the mill—the mill as takes up so little room that it’ll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind’s low with people, than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen. But come,” said the young gentleman; “you want grub, and you shall have it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I’ll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!”

 

“My poor dear Handel,” he replied, holding his head, “I am too stunned to think.”

 

“Which she received,” I struck in, “when she was dressing for her marriage? At twenty minutes to nine?”

 

“Abroad,” said Miss Havisham; “educating for a lady; far out of reach; prettier than ever; admired by all who see her. Do you feel that you have lost her?”

 

This was coming to the point, and I thought it a sensible way of expressing himself.

 

At last we came to the door of a room, and she said, “Go in.”

 

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