Mrs. Boffin and me had no child of our own, and had sometimes wished that how we had one. But not now. ‘We might both of us die,’ says Mrs. Boffin, ‘and other eyes might see that lonely look in our child.’ So of a night, when it was very cold, or when the wind roared, or the rain dripped heavy, she would wake sobbing, and call out in a fluster, ‘Don’t you see the poor child’s face? O shelter the poor child!’⁠—till in course of years it gently wore out, as many things do.”

“My dear Mr. Boffin, everything wears to rags,” said Mortimer, with a light laugh.