"
"Yes--'tis not our greatest doings that the world gets wind of," said
the furmity-woman, who, lately settled in this purlieu, sat among
the rest. Having travelled a great deal in her time she spoke with
cosmopolitan largeness of idea. It was she who presently asked Jopp what
was the parcel he kept so snugly under his arm.
"Ah, therein lies a grand secret," said Jopp. "It is the passion of
love. To think that a woman should love one man so well, and hate
another so unmercifully."
"Who's the object of your meditation, sir?"
"One that stands high in this town. I'd like to shame her! Upon my life,
'twould be as good as a play to read her love-letters, the proud piece
of silk and wax-work! For 'tis her love-letters that I've got here."
"Love letters? then let's hear 'em, good soul," said Mother Cuxsom.
"Lord, do ye mind, Richard, what fools we used to be when we were
younger? Getting a schoolboy to write ours for us; and giving him a
penny, do ye mind, not to tell other folks what he'd put inside, do ye
mind?"
By this time Jopp had pushed his finger under the seals, and unfastened
the letters, tumbling them over and picking up one here and there at
random, which he read aloud. These passages soon began to uncover the
secret which Lucetta had so earnestly hoped to keep buried, though the
epistles, being allusive only, did not make it altogether plain.
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