I see the
garden--a very preserve of butterflies, where the pigeon house and
dog-kennel are, and the fruit trees. And I see again my mother winding her
bright curls around her fingers, and nobody is as proud of her beauty as I
am.
One night when Peggotty and I had been sitting cosily by the parlour fire,
my mother came home from spending the evening at a neighbour's, and with
her was a gentleman with beautiful black hair and whiskers. As my mother
stooped to kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more highly privileged
little fellow than a monarch.
"What does that mean?" I asked him. He smiled and patted me on the head in
reply, but somehow I didn't like him, and I shrank away, jealous that his
hand should touch my mother's in touching me--although my mother's gentle
chiding made me ashamed of the involuntary motion, and of my dislike for
this new friend of hers, but from chance words which I heard Peggotty
utter, I knew that she too felt as I did.
From that time the gentleman with black whiskers, Mr. Murdstone by name,
was at our house constantly, and gradually I became used to seeing him,
but I liked him no better than at first. The sight of him filled me with a
fear that something was going to happen, and time proved that I was right
in my apprehension.
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