‘And how are they all?

Of course, little Emily is not married yet?’

‘Not yet. Going to be, I believe — in so many weeks, or months, or something or other. I have not seen much of ‘em. By the by’; he laid down his knife and fork, which he had been using with great diligence, and began feeling in his pockets; ‘I have a letter for you.’

‘From whom?’

‘Why, from your old nurse,’ he returned, taking some papers out of his breast pocket.

“‘J. Steerforth, Esquire, debtor, to The Willing Mind”; that’s not it. Patience, and we’ll find it presently. Old what’s-his-name’s in a bad way, and it’s