“So they are,” observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.
“‘But now,’ continued Sam, ‘now I find what a reg’lar soft-headed, inkred’lous turnip I must ha’ been; for there ain’t nobody like you, though I like you better than nothin’ at all.’ I thought it best to make that rayther strong,” said Sam, looking up.
Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.
“‘So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary my dear—as the gen’l’m’n in difficulties did, ven he walked out of a Sunday—to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (vich p’raps you may have heerd on Mary my dear) altho it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.’”
“I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, dubiously.
“No it don’t,” replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the point.
“‘Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I’ve said.—My dear Mary I will now conclude.’ That’s all,” said Sam.
“That’s rather a sudden pull up, ain’t it, Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller.
“Not a bit on it,” said Sam; “she’ll vish there wos more, and that’s the great art o’ letter writin’.”