Joe, with an appearance of reflection, “whether it were Joe, or Jorge.”
My sister looked at Pumblechook: who smoothed the elbows of his wooden arm-chair, and nodded at her and at the fire, as if he had known all about it beforehand.
“And how much have you got?” asked my sister, laughing.
“What would present company say to ten pound?” demanded Joe.
“They'd say,” returned my sister, curtly, “pretty well. Not too much, but pretty well.”
“It's more than that, then,” said Joe.
That fearful Impostor,