Consequently she made out nothing, and Mr Dombey in his den remained a very shade.
Little Paul Dombey's foster-mother had led this life herself, and had carried little Paul through it for some weeks; and had returned upstairs one day from a melancholy saunter through the dreary rooms of state (she never went out without Mrs Chick, who called on fine mornings, usually accompanied by Miss Tox, to take her and Baby for an airing--or in other words, to march them gravely up and down the pavement, like a walking funeral); when, as she was sitting in her own room, the door was slowly and quietly opened, and a dark-eyed little girl looked in.
'It's Miss Florence come home from her aunt's, no doubt,' thought Richards, who had never seen the child before.

'Hope I see you well, Miss.' 'Is that my brother ?' asked the child, pointing to the Baby.
'Yes, my pretty,' answered Richards.

'Come and kiss him.' But the child, instead of advancing, looked her earnestly in the face, and said: 'What have you done with my Mama ?' 'Lord bless the little creeter!' cried Richards, 'what a sad question! I done?
Nothing, Miss.' 'What have they done with my Mama ?' inquired the child, with exactly the same look and manner.
'I never saw such a melting thing in all my life!' said Richards, who naturally substituted 'for this child one of her own, inquiring for herself in like circumstances.

'Come nearer here, my dear Miss! Don't be afraid of me.' 'I am not afraid of you,' said the child, drawing nearer.

'But I want to know what they have done with my Mama.' Her heart swelled so as she stood before the woman, looking into her eyes, that she was fain to press her little hand upon her breast and hold it there.