“Wouldn’t you like to step in,” said Mr. Omer, “and speak to her? Walk in and speak to her, sir! Make yourself at home!”

I was too bashful to do so then⁠—I was afraid of confusing her, and I was no less afraid of confusing myself, but I informed myself of the hour at which she left of an evening, in order that our visit might be timed accordingly; and taking leave of Mr. Omer, and his pretty daughter, and her little children, went away to my dear old Peggotty’s.

Here she was, in the tiled kitchen, cooking dinner! The moment I knocked at the door she opened it, and asked me what I pleased to want. I looked at her with a smile, but she gave me no smile in return. I had never ceased to write to her, but it must have been seven years since we had met.