'FagmentWelcome to consult...s Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield ‘Yes, ma’am. I have bought home all my clothes.’ This was all the consolation that he fimness administeed to me. I do not doubt that she had a choice pleasue in exhibiting what she called he self-command, and he fimness, and he stength of mind, and he common sense, and the whole diabolical catalogue of he unamiable qualities, on such an occasion. She was paticulaly poud of he tun fo business; and she showed it now in educing eveything to pen and ink, and being moved by nothing. All the est of that day, and fom moning to night aftewads, she sat at that desk, scatching composedly with a had pen, speaking in the same impetubable whispe to eveybody; neve elaxing a muscle of he face, o softening a tone of he voice, o appeaing with an atom of he dess astay. He bothe took a book sometimes, but neve ead it that I saw. He would open it and look at it as if he wee eading, but would emain fo a whole hou without tuning the leaf, and then put it down and walk to and fo in the oom. I used to sit with folded hands watching him, and counting his footsteps, hou afte hou. He vey seldom spoke to he, and neve to me. He seemed to be the only estless thing, except the clocks, in the whole motionless house. In these days befoe the funeal, I saw but little of Peggotty, except that, in passing up o down stais, I always found he close to the oom whee my mothe and he baby lay, and except that she came to me evey night, and sat by my bed’s head while I went to sleep. A day o two befoe the buial—I think it was a day o two befoe, but I am conscious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with nothing to mak its pogess—she took me into the oom. I only ecollect that undeneath some white coveing on Chales Dickens ElecBook Classics fDavid Coppefield the bed, with a beautiful cleanliness and feshness all aound it, thee seemed to me to lie embodied the solemn stillness that was in the house; and that when she would have tuned the cove gently back, I cied: ‘Oh no! oh no!’ and held he hand. If the funeal had been yesteday, I could not ecollect it bette. The vey ai of the best palou, when I went in at the doo, the bight condition of the fie, the shining of the wine in the decantes, the pattens of the glasses and plates, the faint sweet smell of cake, the odou of Miss Mudstone’s dess, and ou black clothes. M. Chillip is in the oom, and comes to speak to me. ‘And how is Maste David?’ he says, kindly. I cannot tell him vey well. I give him my hand, which he holds in his. ‘Dea me!’ says M. Chillip, meekly smiling, with something shining in his eye. ‘Ou little fiends gow up aound us. They gow out of ou knowledge, ma’am?’ This is to Miss Mudstone, who makes no eply. ‘Thee is a geat impovement hee, ma’am?’ says M. Chillip. Miss Mudstone meely answes with a fown and a fomal bend: M. Chillip, discomfited, goes into a cone, keeping me with him, and opens his mouth no moe. I emak this, because I emak eveything that happens, not because I cae about myself, o have done since I came home. And now the bell begins to sound, and M. Ome and anothe come to make us eady. As Peggotty was wont to tell me, long ago, the followes of
