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As I stood idle by Mr. Jaggers’s fire, its rising and falling flame made the two casts on the shelf look as if they were playing a diabolical game at bo-peep with me; while the pair of coarse, fat office candles that dimly lighted Mr. Jaggers as he wrote in a corner were decorated with dirty winding-sheets, as if in remembrance of a host of hanged clients.

“Little Bo-Peep did not lose her sheep.”

“You don’t like some poor little girl”—she throws on a Little Bo-Peep voice, fluffs her hair—“following big, manly Craig around the ward?”

The legal and mental-health activists opposed to civil commitment of disturbed persons make the National Rifle Association look like Little Bo-Peep.

Take heed Of bo-peep with your pate, your pate, Sir, I speak plain language now.