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twice as loud as usual. Em’ly spoke first.
‘Martha wants,’ she said to Ham, ‘to go to London.’
‘Why to London?’ returned Ham.
He stood between them, looking on the prostrate girl
with a mixture of compassion for her, and of jealousy of
her holding any companionship with her whom he loved so
well, which I have always remembered distinctly. They both
spoke as if she were ill; in a soft, suppressed tone that was
plainly heard, although it hardly rose above a whisper.
‘Better there than here,’ said a third voice aloud - Mar-
tha’s, though she did not move. ‘No one knows me there.
Everybody knows me here.’
‘What will she do there?’ inquired Ham.
She lifted up her head, and looked darkly round at him
for a moment; then laid it down again, and curved her right
arm about her neck, as a woman in a fever, or in an agony of
pain from a shot, might twist herself.
‘She will try to do well,’ said little Em’ly. ‘You don’t know
what she has said to us. Does he - do they - aunt?’
Peggotty shook her head compassionately.
‘I’ll try,’ said Martha, ‘if you’ll help me away. I never can
do worse than I have done here. I may do better. Oh!’ with
a dreadful shiver, ‘take me out of these streets, where the
whole town knows me from a child!’
As Em’ly held out her hand to Ham, I saw him put in
it a little canvas bag. She took it, as if she thought it were
her purse, and made a step or two forward; but finding her
mistake, came back to where he had retired near me, and
showed it to him.