"If you choose to take him for good, I sha'n't have an easy moment.

I'm sure the 'prentice that cut his master's throat at Chatham, last week, was just like him." "Pshaw! Mrs.P.," said the bookseller, taking a huge pinch of snuff, as usual, from his waistcoat pocket.

"I myself was reserved when I was young; all reflective people are.

I may observe, by the by, that it was the case with Napoleon Buonaparte: still, however, I must own he is a disagreeable youth, though he attends to his business." "And how fond of money he is!" remarked Mrs.Plaskwith, "he won't buy himself a new pair of shoes!--quite disgraceful! And did you see what a look he gave Plimmins, when he joked about his indifference to his sole?
Plimmins always does say such good things!" "He is shabby, certainly," said the bookseller; "but the value of a book does not always depend on the binding." "I hope he is honest!" observed Mrs.Plaskwith;--and here Philip entered.
"Hum," said Mr.Plaskwith; "you have had a long day's work: but I suppose it will take a week to finish ?" "I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir: two days more will conclude the task." "There's a letter for you," cried Mrs.Plaskwith; "you owes me for it." "A letter!" It was not his mother's hand--it was a strange writing--he gasped for breath as he broke the seal.

It was the letter of the physician.
His mother, then, was ill-dying-wanting, perhaps, the necessaries of life.