“Ah, it does, my dear. There, as Mr John said to me about you, ‘it will all come right in the end.’”
“Here, what’s the matter?” said Esau gruffly, still half asleep. “Time to get up? Hullo, mother! Oh, oh! I recollect now. I was dreaming about old Quong. I say! Oh, my feet—my feet!”
“There, there, there, my dear; they’ll soon be better,” said Mrs Dean, bending over him; and the sight of those two, with Esau’s pettish ill-humour, quite drove away the rest of my gloom for the time. For as Mrs Dean bent over her son, he pushed her away.
“Don’t, mother; I do wish you wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what, my dear?”
“Talk to me, and pull me about like that.”
“Hush! not so loud, my dear. You’ll wake Mr Gunson.”
“Bother Mr Gunson! There you go again. Can’t you see I’m growed up now?”
“Yes, of course, Esau.”
“No you can’t, or you wouldn’t talk to me like that. You always seem to treat me as if I was two years old; you’ll be wanting to rock me to sleep some night.”