Little Dorrit Vol.1 f.039 recto

"Well?"
“Well?” repeated Mrs FlintwinchFlintwi???, “I setsit methink so. I sits me down and s??? says it. Well!—Jeremiah then says to me, “As to banns, next Sunday being the third time of asking (for I’ve put “em up a fortnight), is my reason for naming Monday. She’ll speak to you about it herself, and now she’ll find you prepared, Affery.” That same day she spoke to me, and she said, “So, Affery, I understand that you and Jeremiah are going to be married. I am glad of it, and so are you, with reason. It is a very good thing for you, and very welcome under the circumstances to me. He is a sensible man, and a trustworthy man, and a persevering man, and a pious man.” What could I say when it had come to that? Why, if it had been—a smothering instead of a wedding,” Mrs Flintwinch cast about in her mind with great pains for this form of expression, “I couldn’t have said a word upon it, against them two clever ones.”

“In good faith, I believe so.”

“And so you may, Arthur.”

“Affery, what girl was that in my mother’s room just now?”

“Girl?” said Mrs Flintwinch in a rather sharp key.

“It was a girl, surely, whom I saw near you—almost hidden in the dark corner?”

“Oh! She? Little Dorrit? She’s nothing; she’s a whim of—hers.” It was a peculiarity of Affery Flintwinch that she never spoke of Mrs Clennam by name. “But there’s another sort of girls than that about. Have you forgot your old sweetheart? Long and long ago, I’ll be bound.”

“I suffered enough from my mother’s separating us, to remember her. I recollect her very well.”

“Have you got another?”

“No.”

“Here’s news for you, then. She’s well to do now, and a widow. And if you like to have her, why you can.”

“And how do you know that, Affery?”

“Them two clever ones have been speaking about it.—There’s Jeremiah on the stairs!” She was gone in a moment.

Mrs Flintwinch had introduced into the web that his mind was busily weaving, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the last thread wanting to the pattern. The airy folly of a boy’s love had found its way even into that house, and he had been as wretched under its hopelessness as if the house had been a castle of romance. Little more than a week ago at Marseilles, the face of the pretty girl from whom he had parted with regret, had had an unusual interest for him, and a tender hold upon him, because of some resemblance, real or imagined, to this first face that had soared out of his gloomy life into the bright glories of fancy. He leaned upon the sill of the long low window, and looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys again, began to dream; for it had been the uniform tendency of this man’s life—so much was wanting in it to think about, so much that might have been better directed