“Go along, you dog, do!” cried the little creature, making a whisk at him with the handkerchief with which she was wiping her face, “and don’t be impudent! But I give you my word and honour I was at Lady Mithers’s last week⁠— there’s a woman! How she wears!⁠—and Mithers himself came into the room where I was waiting for her⁠— there’s a man! How he wears! and his wig too, for he’s had it these ten years⁠—and he went on at that rate in the complimentary line, that I began to think I should be obliged to ring the bell. Ha! ha! ha! He’s a pleasant wretch, but he wants principle.”

“What were you doing for Lady Mithers?” asked Steerforth.