“Miggs,” said Mrs. Varden, “you’re profane.”
“Begging your pardon, mim,” returned Miggs with shrill rapidity, “such was not my intentions, and such I hope is not my character, though I am but a servant.”
“Answering me, Miggs, and providing yourself,” retorted her mistress, looking round with dignity, “is one and the same thing. How dare you speak of angels in connection with your sinful fellow-beings—mere”—said Mrs. Varden, glancing at herself in a neighbouring mirror, and arranging the ribbon of her cap in a more becoming fashion—“mere worms and grovellers as we are!”
“I do not intend, mim, if you please, to give offence,” said Miggs, confident in the strength of her compliment, and developing strongly in the throat as usual, “and I did not expect it would be took as such. I hope I know my own unworthiness, and that I hate and despise myself and all my fellow-creatures as every practicable Christian should.”
Oliver Twist was described by the philanthropists who cared for him as “under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very devil himself.”
Mr. Grimwig had no faith in boys, and he tried hard to shake Mr. Brownlow’s faith in Oliver.
“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimwig pettishly.
“Don’t know?”
“No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two sorts of boys: mealy boys and beef-faced boys.”