"Yes, it is," said Mr. Pecksniff, reckless with despair. "I am rather glad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs. Todgers."
"Don't squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr. Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen should notice us."
"For her sake," said Mr. Pecksniff. "Permit me. In honour of her memory. For the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are very like her, Mrs. Todgers! What a world this is!"
"Ah! Indeed you may say that!" cried Mrs. Todgers.
"I am afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world," said Mr. Pecksniff, overflowing with despondency. "These young people about us. Oh! what sense have they of their responsibilities? None. Give me your other hand, Mrs. Todgers."
The lady hesitated, and said "she didn't like."
"Has a voice from the grave no influence?" said Mr. Pecksniff with dismal tenderness. "This is irreligious! My dear creature."
"Hush!" urged Mrs. Todgers. "Really you mustn't."
"It's not me," said Mr. Pecksniff. "Don't suppose it's me: it's the voice; it's her voice."
Mrs. Pecksniff, deceased, must have had an unusually thick and husky voice for a lady, and rather a stuttering voice, and to say the truth somewhat of a drunken voice, if it had ever borne much resemblance to that in which Mr. Pecksniff spoke just then. But perhaps this was delusion on his part.