A great white cap, with a quantity of opaque frilling that was always flapping about, apologised for Maggy's baldness, and made it so very difficult for her old black bonnet to retain its place upon her head, that it held on round her neck like a gipsy's baby.

A commission of haberdashers could alone have reported what the rest of her poor dress was made of, but it had a strong general resemblance to seaweed, with here and there a gigantic tea-leaf.

Her shawl looked particularly like a tea-leaf after long infusion.
Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the expression of one saying, 'May I ask who this is ?' Little Dorrit, whose hand this Maggy, still calling her little mother, had begun to fondle, answered in words (they were under a gateway into which the majority of the potatoes had rolled).
'This is Maggy, sir.' 'Maggy, sir,' echoed the personage presented.

'Little mother!' 'She is the grand-daughter--' said Little Dorrit.
'Grand-daughter,' echoed Maggy.
'Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time.

Maggy, how old are you ?' 'Ten, mother,' said Maggy.
'You can't think how good she is, sir,' said Little Dorrit, with infinite tenderness.
'Good SHE is,' echoed Maggy, transferring the pronoun in a most expressive way from herself to her little mother.
'Or how clever,' said Little Dorrit.