'
'My noble sir!' cried Mr Pecksniff, catching at his outstretched hand.
'And YOU regret the having harboured unjust thoughts of me! YOU with
those grey hairs!'
'Regrets,' said Martin, 'are the natural property of grey hairs; and
I enjoy, in common with all other men, at least my share of such
inheritance. And so enough of that. I regret having been severed from
you so long. If I had known you sooner, and sooner used you as you well
deserve, I might have been a happier man.'
Mr Pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in rapture.
'Your daughters,' said Martin, after a short silence. 'I don't know
them. Are they like you?'
'In the nose of my eldest and the chin of my youngest, Mr Chuzzlewit,'
returned the widower, 'their sainted parent (not myself, their mother)
lives again.'
'I don't mean in person,' said the old man. 'Morally, morally.'
''Tis not for me to say,' retorted Mr Pecksniff with a gentle smile. 'I
have done my best, sir.'
'I could wish to see them,' said Martin; 'are they near at hand?'
They were, very near; for they had in fact been listening at the
door from the beginning of this conversation until now, when they
precipitately retired.
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