‘Now, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, entering on a clear stage with his man, ‘is there anything that anyone can do for you? If so, mention it.’
‘I would umbly ask, sir,’ returned Uriah, with a jerk of his malevolent head, ‘for leave to write again to mother.’
‘It shall certainly be granted,’ said Mr. Creakle.
‘Thank you, sir! I am anxious about mother. I am afraid she ain’t safe.’
Somebody incautiously asked, what from? But there was a scandalized whisper of ‘Hush!’
‘Immortally safe, sir,’ returned Uriah, writhing in the direction of the voice. ‘I should wish mother to be got into my state. I never should have been got into my present state if I hadn’t come here. I wish mother had come here. It would be better for everybody, if they got took up, and was brought here.’
This sentiment gave unbounded satisfaction—greater satisfaction, I think, than anything that had passed yet.
‘Before I come here,’ said Uriah, stealing a look at us, as if he would have blighted the outer world to which we belonged, if he could, ‘I was given to follies; but now I am sensible of my follies. There’s a deal of sin outside. There’s a deal of sin in mother. There’s nothing but sin everywhere—except here.’
‘You are quite changed?’ said Mr. Creakle.
‘Oh dear, yes, sir!’ cried this hopeful penitent.