Dickens was startled by Arthur's outburst of emotion.
But this was not a sudden whim of Arthur's; he had been in this world for nearly fifteen years.
In those fifteen years, he had walked the country lanes of Yorkshire, studied at the godless academy on Gower Street in London, passed through the bustling Royal Opera House, and ventured into the darkest, lightless corners of the East End of London.
In York, he had seen the luxurious manors of the Nobility, and gazed at the majestic York Minster, which began construction in the year 627.
But he had also seen farmers in soggy wheat fields during the rainy season, wearing shoes with toes sticking out, braving the downpour to rush the harvest just to secure the last bit of their meager income.
In the family workshops, the spinning wheels operated with a constant creaking noise, yet the most skilled woman could produce only half a meter of cloth in a day.