As I approached, a figure broke from in front the plinth and crunched up the pathway toward the thicket of pines on the ridge, leaving a whiff of ck-One on the breeze. Her (for that is what I surmised from the gait) vest flapped in the draught, and her shoulders weighed her down. A sense of muttering accompanied her.
It was morning; I was alone, save for the heat of the day making its presence felt early. I turned to survey the returned statue, a stranger in a foreign land. That was when I saw the offering, wilting, as flesh and blood is want to do in the presence of cold, hard marble.
Dickens never came to this county. His is not a style that resonates down here. The linked article tells the story of the statue.