“What can I do?” returned the little woman, standing up, and holding out her arms to show herself. “See! What I am, my father was; and my sister is; and my brother is. I have worked for sister and brother these many years⁠—hard, Mr. Copperfield⁠—all day. I must live. I do no harm. If there are people so unreflecting or so cruel, as to make a jest of me, what is left for me to do but to make a jest of myself, them, and everything? If I do so, for the time, whose fault is that? Mine?”

No. Not Miss Mowcher’s, I perceived.