“But I love you, Ury,” cried Mrs. Heep. And I have no doubt she did; or that he loved her, however strange it may appear; though, to be sure, they were a congenial couple. “And I can’t bear to hear you provoking the gentlemen, and endangering of yourself more. I told the gentleman at first, when he told me upstairs it was come to light, that I would answer for your being ’umble, and making amends. Oh, see how ’umble I am, gentlemen, and don’t mind him!”
“Why, there’s Copperfield, mother,” he angrily retorted, pointing his lean finger at me, against whom all his animosity was levelled, as the prime mover in the discovery; and I did not undeceive him; “there’s Copperfield, would have given you a hundred pound to say less than you’ve blurted out!”
“I can’t help it, Ury,” cried his mother. “I can’t see you running into danger, through carrying your head so high. Better be ’umble, as you always was.”
He remained for a little, biting the handkerchief, and then said to me with a scowl:
“What more have you got to bring forward? If anything, go on with it. What do you look at me for?”
Mr. Micawber promptly resumed his letter, glad to revert to a performance with which he was so highly satisfied.
“ ‘Third. And last. I am now in a condition to show, by— Heep’s —false books, and— Heep’s —real memoranda, beginning with the partially destroyed pocketbook (which I was unable to comprehend, at the time of its accidental discovery by Mrs. Micawber, on our taking possession of our present abode, in the locker or bin devoted to the reception of the ashes calcined on our domestic hearth), that the weaknesses, the faults, the very virtues, the parental affections, and the