into buds. When I allowed him to go on a little before, on account of the narrowness of the way, I observed that he carried his head with a lofty air that was particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that he had found out about my darling Dora.
If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffeehouse, I could hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him into an upstairs room, and found Miss Murdstone there, supported by a background of sideboard, on which were several inverted tumblers sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes, all corners and flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which, happily for mankind, are now obsolete.
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.
“I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?” said Mr. Spenlow.
I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I said, “It is, sir!”
“If I am not mistaken,” said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murdstone brought a parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied round with the dearest bit of blue ribbon, “those are also from your pen, Mr. Copperfield?”