She waged fierce war
against her dear papa, she led her parent what is usually called, for
want of a better figure of speech, the life of a dog. But never did that
dog live, in kennel, stable-yard, or house, whose life was half as hard
as Mr Pecksniff's with his gentle child.
The father and daughter were sitting at their breakfast. Tom had
retired, and they were alone. Mr Pecksniff frowned at first; but having
cleared his brow, looked stealthily at his child. Her nose was very red
indeed, and screwed up tight, with hostile preparation.
'Cherry,' cried Mr Pecksniff, 'what is amiss between us? My child, why
are we disunited?'
Miss Pecksniff's answer was scarcely a response to this gush of
affection, for it was simply, 'Bother, Pa!'
'Bother!' repeated Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of anguish.
'Oh! 'tis too late, Pa,' said his daughter, calmly 'to talk to me like
this. I know what it means, and what its value is.'
'This is hard!' cried Mr Pecksniff, addressing his breakfast-cup. 'This
is very hard! She is my child. I carried her in my arms when she wore
shapeless worsted shoes--I might say, mufflers--many years ago!'
'You needn't taunt me with that, Pa,' retorted Cherry, with a spiteful
look.
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