Sinking on the stones

　　Long unused to any self-control, the piercing agony of her remorse and grief was terrible.

　　'To have  died, would  not have  been much  - what  can I  say?  -  I would have lived!' she cried.  'I would have lived to be old, in the wretched streets - and to wander about, avoided, in the dark - and to see the day break on the  ghastly line of houses, and remember  how the same sun used  to shine into my room,  and wake me once - I would have done even that, to save her!'

　　Sinking on the stones, she took some  in each hand, and clenched them up,  as if she  would have  ground them.   She writhed  into some  new posture  constantly: stiffening her arms, twisting them before  her face, as though to shut  out from her eyes the little light there was, and drooping her head, as if it were  heavy with insupportable recollections.

　　'What shall I ever do!' she said, fighting thus with her despair. 'How can I  go on as I  am, a solitary  curse to myself,  a living disgrace  to everyone I come near!' Suddenly she turned to my  companion.  'Stamp upon me, kill me!  When she was your pride,  you would have  thought I had  done her harm  if I had  brushed against her in the  street.  You can't believe  - why should you?   - a syllable that comes out of my lips.  It would  be a burning shame upon you, even now,  if she and I exchanged a word.  I don't complain.  I don't say she and I are  alike - I know there is  a long, long way between  us.  I only say, with  all my guilt and wretchedness upon my head, that I am grateful to her from my soul, and  love her.  Oh, don't think that all the power I had of loving anything is quite  worn out! Throw me away,  as all the world  does.  Kill me for  being what I am,  and having ever known her; but don't think that of me!'

　　He looked  upon her,  while she  made this  supplication, in  a wild  distracted manner; and, when she was silent, gently raised her.

　　'Martha,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'God forbid as I should judge you. Forbid as I,  of all men, should do that, my girl!  You doen't know half the change that's  come, in course  of time,  upon me,  when you  think it  likely.  Well!'  he paused  a moment, then went on.  'You doen't understand how 'tis that this here  gentleman and me has wished to speak to you.  You doen't understand what 'tis we has afore us.  Listen now!'

　　His influence upon her was complete.  She stood, shrinkingly, before him, as  if she were afraid to meet his eyes; but her passionate sorrow was quite hushed and mute.

　　'If you heerd,' said  Mr. Peggotty, 'owt of  what passed between Mas'r  Davy and me, th' night when it snew so hard, you know as I have been - wheer not - fur to seek my dear niece.  My dear niece,' he repeated steadily.  'Fur she's more dear to me now, Martha, than she was dear afore.'