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not being taught any more, or cared for any more; and growing up to be a shabby, moody man, lounging an idle life away, about the village; as well as on the feasibility of my getting rid of this picture by going away somewhere, like the hero in a story, to seek my fortune: but these were transient visions, daydreams I sat looking at sometimes, as if they were faintly painted or written on the wall of my room, and which, as they melted away, left the wall blank again. 'Peggotty,' I said in a thoughtful whisper, one evening, when I was warming my hands at the kitchen fire, 'Mr. Murdstone likes me less than he used to. He never liked me much, Peggotty; but he would rather not even see me now, if he can help it.' 'Perhaps it's his sorrow,' said Peggotty, stroking my hair. 'I am sure, Peggotty, I am sorry too. If I believed it was his sorrow, I should not think of it at all. But it's not that; oh, no, it's not that.' 'How do you know it's not that?' said Peggotty, after a silence. 'Oh, his sorrow is another and quite a different thing. He is sorry at this moment, sitting by the fireside with Miss Murdstone; but if I was to go in, Peggotty, he would be something besides.' 'What would he be?' said Peggotty. 'Angry,' I answered, with an involuntary imitation of his dark frown. 'If he was only sorry, he wouldn't look at me as he does. I am only sorry, and it makes me feel kinder.' Peggotty said nothing for a little while; and I warmed my hands, as silent as she. 'Davy,' she said at length. 'Yes, Peggotty?' 'I have tried, my dear, all ways I could think of - all the ways there are, and all the ways there ain't, in short - to get a suitable service here, in Blunderstone; but there's no such a thing, my love.' 'And what do you mean to do, Peggotty,' says I, wistfully. 'Do you mean to go and seek your fortune?' |