Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly fingernails, and sat severely rigid. Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a chair, and stood on the hearthrug in front of the fireplace.

“Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,” said Mr. Spenlow, “what you have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.”

I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips, in sympathy with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it⁠—opening her mouth a little at the same time⁠—and produced my last letter to Dora, teeming with expressions of devoted affection.