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Be poor amoong 'em, be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em for onny o' th' monny causes that carries grief to the poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi' yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisen wi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be riven to bits, ere ever they'd be different. 'In short, said Mr. Bounderby, 'it's because they are so full of virtues that they have turned you adrift.
An' you 'ave yer got a name for the arskin'?" "Why, certainly!" And Helmsley's pale face flushed. "My name is David." "Chrisen name? Surname?" "Both." Matthew Peke shook his head. "'Twon't fadge!" he declared. "It don't sound right. "I'm not a Jew," said Helmsley, smiling. "Mebbe not mebbe not but yer name's awsome like it.
I never said six words to her myself, I ain't a-goin' to tell her so. 'Would you like me to do it, Mr. Barkis? said I, doubtfully. 'You might tell her, if you would, said Mr. Barkis, with another slow look at me, 'that Barkis was a-waitin' for a answer. Says you what name is it? 'Her name? 'Ah! said Mr. Barkis, with a nod of his head. 'Peggotty. 'Chrisen name? Or nat'ral name? said Mr.
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