'Joe Willet, or his ghost?' said Varden, rising from the desk at which
he was busy with his books, and looking at him under his spectacles.
'Which is it? Joe in the flesh, eh? That's hearty. And how are all the
Chigwell company, Joe?'
'Much as usual, sir--they and I agree as well as ever.'
'Well, well!' said the locksmith. 'We must be patient, Joe, and bear
with old folks' foibles. How's the mare, Joe? Does she do the four miles
an hour as easily as ever? Ha, ha, ha! Does she, Joe? Eh!--What have we
there, Joe--a nosegay!'
'A very poor one, sir--I thought Miss Dolly--'
'No, no,' said Gabriel, dropping his voice, and shaking his head, 'not
Dolly. Give 'em to her mother, Joe. A great deal better give 'em to her
mother. Would you mind giving 'em to Mrs Varden, Joe?'
'Oh no, sir,' Joe replied, and endeavouring, but not with the greatest
possible success, to hide his disappointment. 'I shall be very glad, I'm
sure.'
'That's right,' said the locksmith, patting him on the back. 'It don't
matter who has 'em, Joe?'
'Not a bit, sir.'--Dear heart, how the words stuck in his throat!
'Come in,' said Gabriel. 'I have just been called to tea. She's in the
parlour.
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