"No—he is not married," said she, "far from it."
"Not?" said the Pedler, "so much the better; marriage ain't love, no, nor love ain't marriage—I'm a married cove myself, so I know what I'm a-sayin'; if folk do talk, an' shake their 'eads over ye—w'y, let 'em, only don't—don't go a-spilin' things by gettin' 'churched.' You're a woman, but you're a fine un—a dasher, by Goles, nice an' straight-backed, an' round, an' plump—if I was this 'ere cove, now, I know what—"
"Here," said I hastily, "here—sell me a broom!"
The Pedler drew a broom from his bundle and passed it to me.
"One shillin' and sixpence!" said he, which sum I duly paid over. "Don't," he continued, pocketing the money, and turning to Charmian, "don't go spilin' things by lettin' this young cove go a-marryin' an' a-churchin' ye—nobody never got married as didn't repent it some time or other, an' wot's more, when Marriage comes in at the door, Love flies out up the chimbley—an' there y'are! Now, if you loves this young cove, w'y, very good! if this 'ere young cove loves you—which ain't to be wondered at—so much the better, but don't—don't go a-marryin' each other, an'—as for the children—"
"Come—I'll take a belt—give me a belt!" said I, more hastily than before.
"A belt?" said the Pedler.
"A belt, yes."
"Wi' a fine steel buckle made in—"
"Yes—yes!" said I.