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London Bridge (indeed I think he told me so, but I was half
asleep), until we came to the poor person’s house, which
was a part of some alms-houses, as I knew by their look,
and by an inscription on a stone over the gate which said
they were established for twenty-five poor women.
The Master at Salem House lifted the latch of one of a
number of little black doors that were all alike, and had
each a little diamond-paned window on one side, and an-
other little diamond- paned window above; and we went
into the little house of one of these poor old women, who
was blowing a fire to make a little saucepan boil. On seeing
the master enter, the old woman stopped with the bellows
on her knee, and said something that I thought sounded
like ‘My Charley!’ but on seeing me come in too, she got up,
and rubbing her hands made a confused sort of half curt-
sey.
‘Can you cook this young gentleman’s breakfast for him,
if you please?’ said the Master at Salem House.
‘Can I?’ said the old woman. ‘Yes can I, sure!’
‘How’s Mrs. Fibbitson today?’ said the Master, looking
at another old woman in a large chair by the fire, who was
such a bundle of clothes that I feel grateful to this hour for
not having sat upon her by mistake.
‘Ah, she’s poorly,’ said the first old woman. ‘It’s one of
her bad days. If the fire was to go out, through any acci-
dent, I verily believe she’d go out too, and never come to
life again.’
As they looked at her, I looked at her also. Although it
was a warm day, she seemed to think of nothing but the fire.

11 David Copperfield