"At two, mum?" cried a customer. "Why, what's to become of the half-past one batch?"
"We are rather short of—of meat," said Mrs. Lovett, with one of her strange metallic smiles.
"The devil you are! Ain't there butchers enough?"
"Oh, dear, yes; but we could not get such meat as we put in our pies, at the butcher's."
"You kill your own, mum, then, I suppose?"
"We do," replied Mrs. Lovett, with another smile, more metallic than the former.
"And where is your farm, mum?"
"Really, sir, you want to know too much. I appeal to those gentlemen if any of them know where my farm is."
"No—no. D—n it, no, nor don't care," said all the lawyer's clerks. "Don't know anything about it."
"And don't care," said another. "Sufficient for the day is the pie thereof."