'I haven't been, I hope, a very unjust steward in the execution of
my trust,' pursued the Doctor; 'but I am to be, at any rate,
formally discharged, and released, and what not this morning; and
here are our good friends Snitchey and Craggs, with a bagful of
papers, and accounts, and documents, for the transfer of the
balance of the trust fund to you (I wish it was a more difficult
one to dispose of, Alfred, but you must get to be a great man and
make it so), and other drolleries of that sort, which are to be
signed, sealed, and delivered.'

'And duly witnessed as by law required,' said Snitchey, pushing
away his plate, and taking out the papers, which his partner
proceeded to spread upon the table; 'and Self and Crags having been
co-trustees with you, Doctor, in so far as the fund was concerned,
we shall want your two servants to attest the signatures - can you
read, Mrs. Newcome?'

'I an't married, Mister,' said Clemency.

'Oh! I beg your pardon. I should think not,' chuckled Snitchey,
casting his eyes over her extraordinary figure. 'You CAN read?'

'A little,' answered Clemency.

'The marriage service, night and morning, eh?' observed the lawyer,
jocosely.

'No,' said Clemency. 'Too hard. I only reads a thimble.'