He never liked me much, Peggotty; but he would rather not even see me now, if he can help it.' 'Perhaps it's his sorrow,' said Peggotty, stroking my hair.
'I am sure, Peggotty, I am sorry too.

If I believed it was his sorrow, I should not think of it at all.

But it's not that; oh, no, it's not that.' 'How do you know it's not that ?' said Peggotty, after a silence.
'Oh, his sorrow is another and quite a different thing.

He is sorry at this moment, sitting by the fireside with Miss Murdstone; but if I was to go in, Peggotty, he would be something besides.' 'What would he be ?' said Peggotty.
'Angry,' I answered, with an involuntary imitation of his dark frown.
'If he was only sorry, he wouldn't look at me as he does.

I am only sorry, and it makes me feel kinder.' Peggotty said nothing for a little while; and I warmed my hands, as silent as she.
'Davy,' she said at length.
'Yes, Peggotty ?' 'I have tried, my dear, all ways I could think of--all the ways there are, and all the ways there ain't, in short--to get a suitable service here, in Blunderstone; but there's no such a thing, my love.' 'And what do you mean to do, Peggotty,' says I, wistfully.