“There's as many as six, you see, to choose from.”
“I don't understand you,” said I.
“Choose your bridge, Mr. Pip,” returned Wemmick, “and take a walk upon your bridge, and pitch your money into the Thames over the centre arch of your bridge, and you know the end of it. Serve a friend with it, and you may know the end of it too, — but it's a less pleasant and profitable end.”
I could have posted a newspaper in his mouth, he made it so wide after saying this.
“This is very discouraging,” said I.
“Meant to be so,” said Wemmick.
“Then is it your opinion,” I inquired, with some little indignation,