‘Those are her daughters,’ said Mr Pecksniff, pointing out the young ladies, with increased emotion.
Mrs Todgers had no doubt about it.
‘Mercy and Charity,’ said Mr Pecksniff, ‘Charity and Mercy. Not unholy names, I hope?’
‘Mr Pecksniff!’ cried Mrs Todgers. ‘What a ghastly smile! Are you ill, sir?’
He pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a faint voice, ‘Chronic.’
‘Cholic?’ cried the frightened Mrs Todgers.
‘Chron-ic,’ he repeated with some difficulty. ‘Chron-ic. A chronic disorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my grave.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ cried Mrs Todgers.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Mr Pecksniff, reckless with despair. ‘I am rather glad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs Todgers.’
‘Don’t squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen should notice us.’