Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, 'Rosa, come to me. Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans. ![]() 'You have seen my son, sir,' says the elder lady. Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids her look again, tries to rouse her. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, 'Mr. 'Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman's name.' Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind? She is in a garden and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods and winks, 'Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt's the most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!' I find it very curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile stories and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of Sheffield.Īmong my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there are no words. It is nothing smaller than the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. There is something bulky in Peggotty's pocket. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood and Dora (the next in order) says she spoils her. My aunt's old disappointment is set right, now. The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days, when I wondered why the birds didn't peck her in preference to apples, are shrivelled now and her eyes, that used to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still) but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket nutmeg–grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlour at home, when I could scarcely walk. Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of four–score years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a stretch in winter weather.Īlways with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in spectacles, accustomed to do needle–work at night very close to the lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a yard–measure in a little house, and a work–box with a picture of St. ![]() ![]() What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question! I see our children and our friends around us and I hear the roar of many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on. ![]() I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life. I look back, once more-for the last time-before I close these leaves. You should visit Browse Happy and update your internet browser today!Īnd now my written story ends. The embedded audio player requires a modern internet browser.
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