'You know it is not true.'
'Isn't true!' cried Mrs Gamp. 'True! Don't I know as that dear woman
is expecting of me at this minnit, Mr Westlock, and is a-lookin' out of
window down the street, with little Tommy Harris in her arms, as calls
me his own Gammy, and truly calls, for bless the mottled little legs
of that there precious child (like Canterbury Brawn his own dear father
says, which so they are) his own I have been, ever since I found him,
Mr Westlock, with his small red worsted shoe a-gurglin' in his throat,
where he had put it in his play, a chick, wile they was leavin' of
him on the floor a-lookin' for it through the ouse and him a-choakin'
sweetly in the parlour! Oh, Betsey Prig, what wickedness you've showed
this night, but never shall you darken Sairey's doors agen, you twining
serpiant!'
'You were always so kind to her, too!' said John, consolingly.
'That's the cutting part. That's where it hurts me, Mr Westlock,' Mrs
Gamp replied; holding out her glass unconsciously, while Martin filled
it.
'Chosen to help you with Mr Lewsome!' said John. 'Chosen to help you
with Mr Chuffey!'
'Chose once, but chose no more,' cried Mrs Gamp.
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