Joe sank his voice to a whisper and glanced at the door, “candor compels fur to admit that she is a Buster.”

Joe pronounced this word, as if it began with at least twelve capital Bs.

“Why don't I rise? That were your observation when I broke it off, Pip?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“Well,” said Joe, passing the poker into his left hand, that he might feel his whisker; and I had no hope of him whenever he took to that placid occupation; “your sister's a master-mind. A master-mind.”

“What's that?” I asked, in some hope of bringing him to a stand. But Joe was readier with his definition than I had expected, and completely stopped me by arguing circularly, and answering with a fixed look,