‘Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt’s the most extraordinary woman in the world, sir!’

Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty, feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the mind?

She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say.

‘Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman’s name.’

Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, ‘Mr. Copperfield.’

‘I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I hope Time will be good to you.’