“A little stout thing, with—with a hump, and cross-eyes? Miss Pet, it ain’t!” exclaimed Mr. Toosypegs, with tears of vexation in his eyes.
“Not her, either? then I give up. Who is it, Orlando?”
“Miss Pet, I don’t like to tell—you’ll laugh at me,” said Mr. Toosypegs, blushing deeply.
“Laugh! No, I won’t; honor bright! I’ll look as grim as a death’s-head and cross-bones! Now then, out with it!”
“Miss Pet, it’s—it’s—”
“Yes—well?”
“It’s—”
“Well?”
“It’s you,” fairly shouted Mr. Toosypegs, driven to desperation by her perseverance.
“Me! O ye gods and goddesses, without skirts or bodices! Me! Great Jehosaphat! I’ll know what it feels like to be unexpectedly struck by a cannon-ball, after this! Me! Well, I never!”