‘That’s right,’ said Jonas. ‘He is not fit to be left to himself. Why, he fastened on me to-night; here, upon my coat; like a savage dog. Old as he is, and feeble as he is usually, I had some trouble to shake him off. You—Hush!—It’s nothing. You told me the other woman’s name. I forget it.’
‘I mentioned Betsey Prig,’ said Mrs Gamp.
‘She is to be trusted, is she?’
‘That she ain’t!’ said Mrs Gamp; ‘nor have I brought her, Mr Chuzzlewit. I’ve brought another, which engages to give every satigefaction.’
‘What is her name?’ asked Jonas.
Mrs Gamp looked at him in an odd way without returning any answer, but appeared to understand the question too.
‘What is her name?’ repeated Jonas.
‘Her name,’ said Mrs Gamp, ‘is Harris.’
It was extraordinary how much effort it cost Mrs Gamp to pronounce the name she was commonly so ready with. She made some three or four gasps before she could get it out; and, when she had uttered it, pressed her hand upon her side, and turned up her eyes, as if she were going to faint away. But, knowing her to labour under a complication of internal disorders, which rendered a few drops of spirits indispensable at certain times to her existence, and which came on very strong when that remedy was not at hand, Jonas merely supposed her to be the victim of one of these attacks.
‘Well!’ he said, hastily, for he felt how incapable he was of confining his wandering attention to the subject. ‘You and she have arranged to take care of him, have you?’