convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been born on a
Friday.
My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone behind
it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the room, slowly and
inquiringly, began on the other side, and carried her eyes on, like
a Saracen’s Head in a Dutch clock, until they reached my mother.
Then she made a frown and a gesture to my mother, like one who
was accustomed to be obeyed, to come and open the door. My
mother went.
‘Mrs. David Copperfield, I think,’ said Miss Betsey; the
emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother’s mourning weeds, and
her condition.
‘Yes,’ said my mother, faintly.
‘Miss Trotwood,’ said the visitor. ‘You have heard of her, I dare
say?’
My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And she had a
disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to imply that it had
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
David Copperfield
been an overpowering pleasure.
‘Now you see her,’ said Miss Betsey. My mother bent her head,
and begged her to walk in.
They went into the parlour my mother had come from, the fire
in the best room on the other side of the passage not being
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