From Volume II, Chapter X

     The garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and after we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out again into the brewery yard.  I showed her to a nicety where I had seen her walking on the casks, that first old day, and she said, with a cold and careless look in that direction, "Did I?" I reminded her where she had come out of the house and given me my meat and drink, and she said, "I don't remember."  "Not remember that you made me cry?" said I.  "No," said she, and shook her head and looked about her.  I verily believe that her not remembering and not minding in the least, made me cry again, inwardly -- and that is the sharpest crying of all.
     "You must know," said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and beautiful woman might, "that I have no heart -- if that has anything to do with my memory."
     I got through some jargon to the effect that I took the liberty of doubting that.  That I knew better.  That there could be no such beauty without it.
     "Oh! I heave a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt," said Estella, "and, of course, if it ceased to beat I should cease to be.  But you know what I mean.  I have no softness there, no -- sympathy -- sentiment -- nonsense."

From Vol. 1, chapter 3

     "You're not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you?"
     "No, sir! No!"
     "Nor giv' no one the office to follow you?"
     "No!"
     "Well," said he, "I believe you.  You'd be but a fierce young hound indeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched warmint, hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint is!"
     Something clicked in his throat, as if he had works in him like a clock, and was going to strike.  And he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes.
     Pitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down upon the pie, I made bold to say, "I am glad you enjoy it."
     "Did you speak?"
     "I said I was glad you enjoyed it."
     "Thankee, my boy. I do."
     I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now noticed a decided similarity between the dog's way of eating and the man's.  The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog.  He swallowed or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast; and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was a danger in every direction, of somebody's coming to take the pie away.  He was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it, to appreciate it comfortably, I thought, or to have anybody to dine with him, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor.  In all of which particulars he was very like the dog.

From Book Two, Chapter IX

Neither, as she approached her old home now, did any of the best influences of old home descend upon her.  The dreams of childhood -- its airy fables, its graceful, beautiful, humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond: so good to be believed in once, so good to be remembered when out-grown, for then the least among them rises to the stature of a great Charity in the heart, suffering little children to come into the midst of it, and to keep with their pure hands a garden in the stony ways of this world, wherein it were better for all the children of Adam that they should oftener sun themselves, simple and trustful, and not worldly-wise -- what had she to do with these?  Remembrances of how she had journeyed to the little that she knew, by the enchanted roads of what she and millions of innocent creatures had hoped and imagined; of how, first coming upon Reason through the tender light of Fancy, she had seen it a beneficent god, deferring to gods as great as itself: not a grim Idol, cruel and cold, with its victims bound hand to foot, and its big dumb shape set up with a sightless stare, never to be moved by anything, but so many calculated tons of leverage -- what had she to do with these? Her remembrances of home and childhood were remembrances of the drying up of every spring and fountain in her young heart as it gushed out.  The golden waters were not there.  They were flowing for the fertilization of the land where grapes are gathered from thorns, and figs from thistles.