You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from.
`Scrooge and Marley's, I believe,' said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list.
Marley has been dead these seven years,' Scrooge replied.
Let it also be borne in mind that Scrooge had not bestowed one thought on Marley, since his last mention of his seven years' dead partner that afternoon.
He did pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door; and he did look cautiously behind it first, as if he half-expected to be terrified with the sight of Marley's pigtail sticking out into the hall.
There were Cains and Abels, Pharaohs' daughters; Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds, Abrahams, Belshazzars, Apostles putting off to sea in butter-boats, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts -- and yet that face of Marley, seven years dead, came like the ancient Prophet's rod, and swallowed up the whole.
Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried `I know him; Marley's Ghost!' and fell again.
Marley in his pigtail, usual waistcoat, tights and boots; the tassels on the latter bristling, like his pigtail, and his coat-skirts, and the hair upon his head.
Scrooge had often heard it said that Marley had no bowels, but he had never believed it until now.
When they were within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer.