‘They an’t draw’d into it by me, ‘Tilda,’ retorted Miss Squeers.
‘No,’ returned her friend; ‘that’s exceedingly true.’
The sarcastic tone of this reply might have provoked a rather acrimonious retort from Miss Squeers, who, besides being of a constitutionally vicious temper—aggravated, just now, by travel and recent jolting—was somewhat irritated by old recollections and the failure of her own designs upon Mr. Browdie; and the acrimonious retort might have led to a great many other retorts, which might have led to Heaven knows what, if the subject of conversation had not been, at that precise moment, accidentally changed by Mr. Squeers himself
‘What do you think?’ said that gentleman; ‘who do you suppose we have laid hands on, Wackford and me?’
‘Pa! not Mr—?’ Miss Squeers was unable to finish the sentence, but Mrs. Browdie did it for her, and added, ‘Nickleby?’
‘No,’ said Squeers. ‘But next door to him though.’
‘You can’t mean Smike?’ cried Miss Squeers, clapping her hands.
‘Yes, I can though,’ rejoined her father. ‘I’ve got him, hard and fast.’
‘Wa’at!’ exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. ‘Got that poor—dom’d scoondrel? Where?’
‘Why, in the top back room, at my lodging,’ replied Squeers, ‘with him on one side, and the key on the other.’