Digital primer

Jack,
having got himself out of his wraps, and run his bristles backwards with a
pocket-comb, was ready for presentation.
'What name shall I _e_nounce?' asked Mr. Spigot, fearful of committing
himself before the ladies.
'MISTER SPRAGGON, to be sure,' exclaimed Jack, thinking, because
he knew who he was, that everybody else ought to know too.
Spigot then led the way to the music-room.
The peal at the bell had caused a suppressed commotion in the apartment.
Buried in the luxurious depths of a well-cushioned low chair, Mr. Sponge
sat, _Mogg_ in hand, with a toe cocked up, now dipping leisurely into his
work--now whispering something sweet into Amelia's ear, who sat with her
crochet-work at his side; while Emily played the piano, and Mrs. Jawleyford
kept in the background, in the discreet way mothers do when there is a
little business going on. The room was in that happy state of misty light
that usually precedes the entrance of candles--a light that no one likes to
call darkness, lest their eyes might be supposed to be failing.


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