A slight shade of distress fell upon her, at his so often calling her a child. She was surprised that he should see it, or think of such a slight thing; but he said directly:
‘I wanted a tender word, and could think of no other. As you just now gave yourself the name they give you at my mother’s, and as that is the name by which I always think of you, let me call you Little Dorrit.’
‘Thank you, sir, I should like it better than any name.’
‘Little Dorrit.’
‘Little mother,’ Maggy (who had been falling asleep) put in, as a correction.
‘It’s all the same, Maggy,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘all the same.’
‘Is it all the same, mother?’
‘Just the same.’
Maggy laughed, and immediately snored. In Little Dorrit’s eyes and ears, the uncouth figure and the uncouth sound were as pleasant as could be. There was a glow of pride in her big child, overspreading her face, when it again met the eyes of the grave brown gentleman. She wondered what he was thinking of, as he looked at Maggy and her. She thought what a good father he would be. How, with some such look, he would counsel and cherish his daughter.
‘What I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘is, that my brother is at large.’