Mrs Todgers had no doubt about it.
'Mercy and Charity,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'Charity and Mercy. Not unholy
names, I hope?'
'Mr Pecksniff!' cried Mrs Todgers. 'What a ghastly smile! Are you ill,
sir?'
He pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a
faint voice, 'Chronic.'
'Cholic?' cried the frightened Mrs Todgers.
'Chron-ic,' he repeated with some difficulty. 'Chron-ic. A chronic
disorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my
grave.'
'Heaven forbid!' cried Mrs Todgers.
'Yes, it is,' said Mr Pecksniff, reckless with despair. 'I am rather
glad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs Todgers.'
'Don't squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen
should notice us.'
'For her sake,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Permit me--in honour of her memory.
For the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are VERY like her Mrs
Todgers! What a world this is!'
'Ah! Indeed you may say that!' cried Mrs Todgers.
'I'm afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world,' said Mr Pecksniff,
overflowing with despondency. 'These young people about us.
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