Dickens thought Martin Chuzzlewit (1843-44) was his best book yet.
Having just finished it (on my second attempt) I'd say it's pretty good once you get through the first 300 or so pages, though the ending does seem a trifle deus ex dementia.
But it's still not a patch on Nicholas Nickleby (1838-39) or even Oliver Twist (1837-39).
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“Gaslight” in the novels of Charles Dickens, especially “Our Mutual Friend” (1865). #111Words #CharlesDickens #Gaslight #MartinChuzzlewit #HardTimes #LittleDorrit #OurMutualFriend #Literature #Technology https://andrewjshields.blogspot.com/2023/07/gaslight-in-novels-of-charles-dickens.html

He answered nothing was the matter; and turned from her. But in her fear and wonder, turning also, she saw him raise his trembling hands above his head, and heard him say:
‘Oh! woe, woe, woe, upon this wicked house!’
It was her welcome—home.
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‘Why, it is dull,’ said Merry, trying to be more herself.
‘It’ll be duller before you’re done with it,’ retorted Jonas, ‘if you give me any of your airs. You’re a nice article, to turn sulky on first coming home! Ecod, you used to have life enough, when you could plague me with it. The gal’s downstairs. Ring the bell for supper, while I take my boots off!’
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It was a pleasant instance of this youth’s precocity, that he fancied Mrs Gamp had conceived a tenderness for him, and was much tickled by her misplaced attachment.
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‘But I will say, and I would if I was led a Martha to the Stakes for it,’ Mrs Gamp remarked below stairs, in a whisper, ‘that she don’t look much like a merry one at this present moment of time.’
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‘Would you be so good, my darling dovey of a dear young married lady,’ Mrs Gamp observed, in a low voice, ‘as put that somewheres where you can keep it in your mind? I’m well beknown to many ladies, and it’s my card. Gamp is my name, and Gamp my nater. Livin’ quite handy, I will make so bold as call in now and then, and make inquiry how your health and spirits is, my precious chick!’
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‘No,’ said Merry, almost crying. ‘You had better go away, please!’ With a leer of mingled sweetness and slyness; with one eye on the future, one on the bride, and an arch expression in her face, partly spiritual, partly spirituous, and wholly professional and peculiar to her art; Mrs Gamp rummaged in her pocket again, and took from it a printed card, whereon was an inscription copied from her signboard.
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‘So there you are, Mr Chuff,’ said Jonas carelessly, as he dusted his boots; ‘still in the land of the living, eh?’
‘Still in the land of the living, sir,’ retorted Mrs Gamp. ‘And Mr Chuffey may thank you for it, as many and many a time I’ve told him.’
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