“Come, come, bestir yourself, my good woman, or shall I go?” said Sims, hurrying towards the chamber door.
“No,” said Mrs. Corder, losing her temper, forgetting her respectability, descending into the depths of Billingsgate, and fishing up its blackest mud of vituperation to fling at the policemen.
She resisted, abused, and threatened them at such a rate that, had they not been very forbearing, besides having a much more important matter in hand, they might reasonably have taken her in charge.
When the landlady had fairly screamed herself out of breath, so that she was obliged to stop and pant, Eudora took advantage of the momentary silence to lay her manacled hands upon the arm of the angry woman, and to falter:
“Dear, good friend, all this is well meant, but it does me harm instead of good. We cannot possibly resist lawful authority; and so, if you really desire to serve me, do that for me which I should not like a policeman to do, and which I cannot do for myself.”
“Oh, poor, fatherless, motherless child! Oh, poor, dear little fettered wrists!” cried the landlady, sobbing and weeping over them.
“Come, mum, come! time’s up!” said Sims.
He was answered by another shower of tears and abuse, as Mrs. Corder retreated into the bed-room.
She soon reappeared with Eudora’s outer garments, which she carefully arranged upon the person of their owner, folding the shawl so as to conceal the degrading fetters.
“And now, where be you a-going to take my poor darling? Not to Newgate, I hope?”