Sus. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to somebody to learn ye good manners? I been better brought up myself.
Mrs. C. I see I was wrong: I ought at once to have handed the matter over to the police.
Sus. The perlice, indeed!—You get out of this, ma'am, or I'll make you!—you and your cowardly man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in the face through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with your—insolence—that's your word!
Exit MRS. CLIFFORD.
Mat. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us?
Sus. She daren't do it—the old scrooge! But just let her try it on! See if I don't show her up afore the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work my fingers to the bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let me. I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're a-dyin' of hunger, which it's as true as gospel.
Mat. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey.
Sus. There must be some good people somewheres, Mattie.
Mat. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can live till we die, Sukey.
Sus. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women ha' done it afore. It's quite respectable, so long as they don't find you out—and they shouldn't me. There's ne'er a one o' the redcoats 'ill cut up rougher 'n I shall—barrin' the beard, and that don't go for much now-a-days.