David Copperfieldcase of a conflagration; and I suppose really did find some
satisfaction in that circumstance.
‘Trot, my dear,’ said my aunt, when she saw me making
preparations for compounding her usual night-draught,
‘No!’
‘Nothing, aunt?’
‘Not wine, my dear. Ale.’
‘But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it
made of wine.’
‘Keep that, in case of sickness,’ said my aunt. ‘We mustn’t
use it carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.’
I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My
aunt being resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it
was growing late, Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that oppor-
tunity of repairing to the chandler’s shop together. I parted
from him, poor fellow, at the corner of the street, with his
great kite at his back, a very monument of human misery.
My aunt was walking up and down the room when I
returned, crimping the borders of her nightcap with her
fingers. I warmed the ale and made the toast on the usu-
al infallible principles. When it was ready for her, she was
ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the skirt of her gown
turned back on her knees.
‘My dear,’ said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; ‘it’s
a great deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.’
I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added:
‘Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us,
we are well off.’
‘I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,’ said I.