‘Oh, beyond a doubt,’ assented Mrs Jiniwin hastily; ‘if we once had that, we should be quite sure.’
‘With regard to the descriptive advertisement,’ said Sampson Brass, taking up his pen. ‘It is a melancholy pleasure to recall his traits. Respecting his legs now—?’
‘Crooked, certainly,’ said Mrs Jiniwin. ‘Do you think they were crooked?’ said Brass, in an insinuating tone. ‘I think I see them now coming up the street very wide apart, in nankeen’ pantaloons a little shrunk and without straps. Ah! what a vale of tears we live in. Do we say crooked?’
‘I think they were a little so,’ observed Mrs Quilp with a sob.
‘Legs crooked,’ said Brass, writing as he spoke. ‘Large head, short body, legs crooked—’
‘Very crooked,’ suggested Mrs Jiniwin.
‘We’ll not say very crooked, ma’am,’ said Brass piously. ‘Let us not bear hard upon the weaknesses of the deceased. He is gone, ma’am, to where his legs will never come in question.—We will content ourselves with crooked, Mrs Jiniwin.’
‘I thought you wanted the truth,’ said the old lady. ‘That’s all.’
‘Bless your eyes, how I love you,’ muttered Quilp. ‘There she goes again. Nothing but punch!’
‘This is an occupation,’ said the lawyer, laying down his pen and emptying his glass, ‘which seems to bring him before my eyes like the Ghost of Hamlet’s father, in the very clothes that he wore on work-a-days. His coat, his waistcoat, his shoes and stockings, his trousers, his hat, his wit and humour, his pathos and his umbrella, all come before me like visions of my youth. His linen!’ said Mr Brass smiling fondly at the wall, ‘his linen which was always of a particular colour, for such was his whim and fancy—how plain I see his linen now!’