POLICEMAN (in an incredibly gruff voice). I want a pennyworth.
CINDERELLA (unsuspecting). Sit down. (She surveys the coster.) It’s you that belongs to the shirt, isn’t it?
MAN. Yes; is’t ready?
CINDERELLA. It’s ready.
(It proves to be not a shirt, but a ‘front’ of linen, very stiff and starched. The laundress cautiously retains possession of it.)
The charge is a penny.
MAN. On delivery.
CINDERELLA. Before delivery.
MAN. Surely you can trust me.
CINDERELLA. You’ve tried that on before, my man. Never again! All in this street knows my rule,—Trust in the Lord—every other person, cash.