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Updated: May 6, 2025
For crab, a shell-fish erst loved well, I do not care at all, Though I myself am in the shell And fellow-feelings call. I mourn not over tasks unsaid This child is not a flat My purse is empty as my head, But no it isn't that; I cannot eat. And why? To shrink From truth is like a sinner, I'll speak or burst; it is, I think, That I've just had my dinner.
No; let us give Becky her due. There is enough in this world of ours, as we all know, to provoke a saint, far more a poor little devil like her. She had none of those fellow-feelings which make us wondrous kind. She saw people around her cowards in vice, and simpletons in virtue, and she had no patience with either, for she was as little the one as the other herself.
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