‘Deuce a bit!’ said Pancks. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’
‘I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.’
‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘What’s it worth? You shall live to see, Miss Dorrit.’
Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner; and repeated slowly, ‘Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live to see.’
She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only by his knowing so much about her.
‘Ah! That’s it!’ said Pancks, pointing at her. ‘Miss Dorrit, not that, ever!’
More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to him for an explanation of his last words.
‘Not that,’ said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally grotesque. ‘Don’t do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter where. I am nobody. Don’t take on to mind me. Don’t mention me. Take no notice. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?’
‘I hardly know what to say,’ returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded. ‘Why?’
‘Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven’t told you so much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what’s behind me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’