“I can’t get up,” said the child, “because my back’s bad, and my legs are queer. But I’m the person of the house.”
“Who else is at home?” asked Charley Hexam, staring.
“Nobody’s at home at present,” returned the child, with a glib assertion of her dignity, “except the person of the house. What did you want, young man?”
“I wanted to see my sister.”
“Many young men have sisters,” returned the child. “Give me your name, young man?”
The queer little figure, and the queer but not ugly little face, with its bright grey eyes, were so sharp, that the sharpness of the manner seemed unavoidable. As if, being turned out of that mould, it must be sharp.
“Hexam is my name.”
“Ah, indeed?” said the person of the house. “I thought it might be. Your sister will be in, in about a quarter of an hour. I am very fond of your sister. She’s my particular friend. Take a seat. And this gentleman’s name?”
“ Mr. Headstone, my schoolmaster.”
“Take a seat. And would you please to shut the street door first? I can’t very well do it myself; because my back’s so bad, and my legs are so queer.”
They complied in silence, and the little figure went on with its work of gumming or gluing together with a camel’s-hair brush certain pieces