'Yes,' said Peggotty. 'Box.'

'Shan't I see mama?'

'Yes,' said Peggotty. 'Morning.'

Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and delivered
these words through it with as much feeling and earnestness as a
keyhole has ever been the medium of communicating, I will venture
to assert: shooting in each broken little sentence in a convulsive
little burst of its own.

'Davy, dear. If I ain't been azackly as intimate with you.
Lately, as I used to be. It ain't because I don't love you. Just
as well and more, my pretty poppet. It's because I thought it
better for you. And for someone else besides. Davy, my darling,
are you listening? Can you hear?'

'Ye-ye-ye-yes, Peggotty!' I sobbed.

'My own!' said Peggotty, with infinite compassion. 'What I want to
say, is. That you must never forget me. For I'll never forget
you. And I'll take as much care of your mama, Davy. As ever I
took of you. And I won't leave her. The day may come when she'll
be glad to lay her poor head. On her stupid, cross old Peggotty's
arm again. And I'll write to you, my dear. Though I ain't no
scholar. And I'll - I'll -' Peggotty fell to kissing the keyhole,
as she couldn't kiss me.

'Thank you, dear Peggotty!' said I. 'Oh, thank you! Thank you!