She was about eight-and-twenty, with large bones, large features, large

feet and hands, large eyes and no hair. Her large eyes were limpid and

almost colourless; they seemed to be very little affected by light,

and to stand unnaturally still. There was also that attentive listening

expression in her face, which is seen in the faces of the blind; but she

was not blind, having one tolerably serviceable eye. Her face was not

exceedingly ugly, though it was only redeemed from being so by a smile;

a good-humoured smile, and pleasant in itself, but rendered pitiable

by being constantly there. A great white cap, with a quantity of

opaque frilling that was always flapping about, apologised for Maggy's

baldness, and made it so very difficult for her old black bonnet to

retain its place upon her head, that it held on round her neck like a

gipsy's baby.

A commission of haberdashers could alone have reported

what the rest of her poor dress was made of, but it had a strong general

resemblance to seaweed, with here and there a gigantic tea-leaf. Her

shawl looked particularly like a tea-leaf after long infusion.

Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the expression of one

saying, 'May I ask who this is?' Little Dorrit, whose hand this Maggy,

still calling her little mother, had begun to fondle, answered in words

(they were under a gateway into which the majority of the potatoes had

rolled). 'This is Maggy, sir.' 'Maggy, sir,' echoed the personage presented.

'Little mother!' 'She is the grand-daughter--' said Little Dorrit. 'Grand-daughter,' echoed Maggy.

'Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time. Maggy, how old are

you?' 'Ten, mother,' said Maggy. 'You can't think how good she is, sir,' said Little Dorrit, with

infinite tenderness. 'Good SHE is,' echoed Maggy, transferring the pronoun in a most

expressive way from herself to her little mother. 'Or how clever,' said Little Dorrit.

'She goes on errands as well as any one.' Maggy laughed.

'And is as trustworthy as the Bank of England.'

Maggy laughed. 'She earns her own living entirely. Entirely, sir!' said

Little Dorrit, in a lower and triumphant tone. 'Really does!'

'What is her history?' asked Clennam.

'Think of that, Maggy?' said Little Dorrit, taking her two large hands

and clapping them together. 'A gentleman from thousands of miles away,

wanting to know your history!'

'My history?' cried Maggy. 'Little mother.'

'She means me,' said Little Dorrit, rather confused; 'she is very much

attached to me. Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she should

have been; was she, Maggy?' Maggy shook her head, made a drinking vessel

of her clenched left hand, drank out of it, and said, 'Gin.' Then beat

an imaginary child, and said, 'Broom-handles and pokers.'




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