The first exclamation sounded like a question put to both of us, and the second like a question put to Steerforth only. She seemed to have found no answer to either, but continued to rub, with her head on one side and her eye turned up, as if she were looking for an answer in the air and were confident of its appearing presently.

“A sister of yours, Mr. Copperfield?” she cried, after a pause, and still keeping the same lookout. “Aye, aye?”

“No,” said Steerforth, before I could reply. “Nothing of the sort. On the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used⁠—or I am much mistaken⁠—to have a great admiration for her.”

“Why, hasn’t he now?” returned Miss Mowcher. “Is he fickle? Oh, for shame! Did he sip every flower, and change every hour, until Polly his passion requited?⁠—Is her name Polly?”