There is something bulky in Peggotty’s pocket. It is nothing smaller than the crocodile book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the crocodile stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of Sheffield.
Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods and winks, “Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt’s the most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!”
Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say.
“Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman’s name.”
Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, “ Mr. Copperfield.”
“I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I hope time will be good to you.”
Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her.
“You have seen my son, sir,” says the elder lady. “Are you reconciled?”
Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans. Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, “Rosa, come to me. He is dead!” Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels with her;