“When, Peggotty?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the clothes out of my drawers?” which she had done, though I have forgotten to mention it.
“Yes,” said Peggotty. “Box.”
“Shan’t I see mama?”
“Yes,” said Peggotty. “Morning.”
Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and delivered these words through it with as much feeling and earnestness as a keyhole has ever been the medium of communicating, I will venture to assert: shooting in each broken little sentence in a convulsive little burst of its own.
“Davy, dear. If I ain’t been azackly as intimate with you. Lately, as I used to be. It ain’t because I don’t love you. Just as well and more, my pretty poppet. It’s because I thought it better for you. And for someone else besides. Davy, my darling, are you listening? Can you hear?”
“Ye-ye-ye-yes, Peggotty!” I sobbed.
“My own!” said Peggotty, with infinite compassion. “What I want to say, is. That you must never forget me. For I’ll never forget you. And I’ll take as much care of your mama, Davy. As ever I took of you. And I won’t leave her. The day may come when she’ll be glad to lay her poor head. On her stupid, cross old Peggotty’s arm again. And I’ll write to you, my dear. Though I ain’t no scholar. And I’ll—I’ll—” Peggotty fell to kissing the keyhole, as she couldn’t kiss me.