“David Copperfield?” said Mr. Dick, who did not appear to me to remember much about it. “ David Copperfield? Oh yes, to be sure. David, certainly.”

“Well,” said my aunt, “this is his boy⁠—his son. He would be as like his father as it’s possible to be, if he was not so like his mother, too.”

“His son?” said Mr. Dick. “David’s son? Indeed!”

“Yes,” pursued my aunt, “and he has done a pretty piece of business. He has run away. Ah! His sister, Betsey Trotwood, never would have run away.” My aunt shook her head firmly, confident in the character and behaviour of the girl who never was born.

“Oh! you think she wouldn’t have run away?” said Mr. Dick.