“No, indeed,” answered the child fervently, “they make me feel so happy!”
“That’s well; I know they do; they should,” said the old man. “Bless thee a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be home.”
“You’ll not ring twice,” returned the child. “The bell wakes me, even in the middle of a dream.”
The Toodle family is painted in direct contrast to the Dombey family in the relationship of parents to children. Mrs. Toodle came to nurse Paul Dombey when his mother died. Mr. Toodle himself came too, and Mr. Dombey called him in to speak to him.
He was a strong, loose, round-shouldered, shuffling, shaggy fellow, on whom his clothes sat negligently; with a good deal of hair and whisker, deepened in its natural tint, perhaps, by smoke and coal-dust; hard knotty hands; and a square forehead, as coarse in grain as the bark of an oak. A thorough contrast in all respects to Mr. Dombey, who was one of those close-shaved, close-cut moneyed gentlemen who are glossy and crisp like new bank notes, and who seem to be artificially braced and tightened as by the stimulating action of golden shower baths.
“You have a son, I believe?” said Mr. Dombey.
“Four on ’em, sir. Four hims and a her. All alive!”
“Why, it’s as much as you can afford to keep them!” said Mr. Dombey.
“I couldn’t hardly afford but one thing in the world less, sir.”
“What is that?”