My pretty, little, startled Dora! Her only association with the word was a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a wooden leg, or a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or something of that kind; and she stared at me with the most delightful wonder.
“How can you ask me anything so foolish?” pouted Dora. “Love a beggar!”
“Dora, my own dearest!” said I. “ I am a beggar!”
“How can you be such a silly thing,” replied Dora, slapping my hand, “as to sit there, telling such stories? I’ll make Jip bite you!”
Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world to me, but it was necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly repeated:
“Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!”
“I declare I’ll make Jip bite you!” said Dora, shaking her curls, “if you are so ridiculous.”
But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shaking her curls, and laid her trembling little hand upon my shoulder, and first looked scared and anxious, then began to cry. That was dreadful. I fell upon my knees before the sofa, caressing her, and imploring her not to rend my heart; but, for some time, poor little Dora did nothing but exclaim Oh dear! Oh dear! And oh, she was so frightened! And where was Julia Mills! And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until I was almost beside myself.
At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression of face, which I gradually soothed