The Three Ages of Woman

'Peggotty,' I said in a thoughtful whisper, one evening, when I was warming my hands at the kitchen fire, 'Mr. Murdstone likes me less than he used to. He never liked me much, Peggotty; but he would rather not even see me now, if he can help it.' ¡¡¡¡'Perhaps it's his sorrow,' said Peggotty, stroking my hair. ¡¡¡¡'I am sure, Peggotty, I am sorry too. If I believed it was his sorrow, I should not think of it at all. But it's not that; oh, no, it's not that.' ¡¡'How do you know it's not that?' said Peggotty, after a silence. ¡¡¡¡'Oh, his sorrow is another and quite a different thing. He is sorry at this moment, sitting by the fireside with Miss Murdstone; but if I was to go in, Peggotty, he would be something besides.' ¡¡¡¡'What would he be?' said Peggotty. 'Angry,' I answered, with an involuntary imitation of his dark frown. 'If he was only sorry, he wouldn't look at me as he does. I am only sorry, and it makes me feel kinder.' ¡¡¡¡Peggotty said nothing for a little while; and I warmed my hands, as silent as she.