Betsey Trotwood disappointed me. When you came to me, a little
runaway boy, all dusty and way-worn, perhaps I thought so. From
that time until now, Trot, you have ever been a credit to me and a
pride and a pleasure. I have no other claim upon my means; at
least’—here to my surprise she hesitated, and was confused—‘no, I
have no other claim upon my means—and you are my adopted
child. Only be a loving child to me in my age, and bear with my
whims and fancies; and you will do more for an old woman whose
prime of life was not so happy or conciliating as it might have
been, than ever that old woman did for you.’
It was the first time I had heard my aunt refer to her past
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David Copperfield
history. There was a magnanimity in her quiet way of doing so,
and of dismissing it, which would have exalted her in my respect
and affection, if anything could.
‘All is agreed and understood between us, now, Trot,’ said my
aunt, ‘and we need talk of this no more. Give me a kiss, and we’ll
go to the Commons after breakfast tomorrow.’
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