inconvenience. It happened on one occasion, when he was doing me the honour of talking to me in the playground, that I hazarded the observation that something or somebody — I forget what now — was like something or somebody in Peregrine Pickle.
He said nothing at the time; but when I was going to bed at night, asked me if I had got that book?
I told him no, and explained how it was that I had read it, and all those other books of which I have made mention.
‘And do you recollect them?’ Steerforth said.
‘Oh yes,’ I replied; I had a good memory, and I believed I recollected them very well.
‘Then I tell you what, young Copperfield,’ said Steerforth,