A pause. Dombey as motionless as the figure-head of a stranded ship.
“You left me to manage your business—you did.—I managed it—ha! ha! ha!—till I made it mine! mine! ha! ha! Take the penny, Dombey! take it, that’s a good man, and go! go! go!”
“No!”
“No”—was it an echo? More actors on the scene? Aye. More! more!
The old woman—the old woman and the handsome daughter!—Edith’s counterpart—Edith in rags—Edith an outcast—Edith—Edith—Still—Still, Edith.
Oh! how the Teeth chattered—the Teeth—they did—as the lightening of that outcast’s eye flashed—and the cataract of that outcast’s hair streamed, and the trumpet of that outcast’s voice rang and re-echoed in God’s sunshine!
“Forger—Felon—Murderer! Ha! ha! ha! The hour is come—it is!”
And the old crone screamed in chorus “Felon!—it is!”
And where was Carker?
On the floor in a strong fit. Smitten—smitten—in his pride and his power. Smitten by the voice of the woman he had ruined—the woman he had tried to hang.—Now it was her turn! It was!