“I am sorry for him; I couldn't beangry with him if I tried. Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself always.Here he takes it into his head to dislike us, and he won't come and dinewith us. What's the consequence? He don't lose much of a dinner.""Indeed, I think he loses a very good dinner," interrupted Scrooge'sniece. Everybody else said the same, and they must be allowed to havebeen competent judges, because they had just had dinner; and, with thedessert upon the table, were clustered round the fire, by lamp-light.”

“Thought you said this was just dinner?”Abe opens the glass door and holds it for me. As I pass by him, he lowers his head so that his voice is close to my ear. “It’s never just dinner.”

“I was only going to say," said Scrooge's nephew, "that the consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is, as I think, that he loses some pleasant moments, which could do him no harm. I am sure he loses pleasanter companions than he can find in his own thoughts, either in his mouldy old office or his dusty chambers. I mean to give him the same chance every year, whether he likes it or not, for I pity him. He may rail at Christmas till he dies, but he can't help thinking better of it—I defy him—if he finds me going there in good temper, year after year, and saying, 'Uncle Scrooge, how are you?' If it only puts him in the vein to leave his poor clerk fifty pounds, that's something.”

“He attacked us. What was I supposed to do? Invite him to dinner? (Sin)”

“Dinner was a disaster. Brent introduced himself while staring at my bulge, and I was glad to be shown to our table so that we were seated with a table between us, forcing him to look me in the eye. Apparently, my eyes have moved down to my pecs, though, as that's where he decided to fix his attention throughout dinner.”

“...that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea, because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted... He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him 'poor Richard,' been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead.”