"There is. Why?"
"It's my belief as 'ow she's bin a waccinated ten times, yer honour."
"Why, Simon?"
"Why, she's without blood or marrow, she is; and as for flesh, she ain't got none."
"Well, what for that?"
"And not honly that," he continued, without heeding my question, "she hain't a got a hounce of tender feelin's in her natur. In my opinion, sur, she's a witch, she is, and hev got dealin's with the devil."
"And what for all this?" I said. "Surely you haven't taken me up here to give me your impressions concerning Miss Staggles?"
"Well, I hev partly, yer honour. The truth is"—here he sunk his voice to a whisper—"she's very thick with that willain with a hinfidel's name. They're in league, sur." "How do you know?"
"They've bin a-promenadin' together nearly every day since Christmas; and when a feller like that 'ere Woltaire goes a-walkin' with a creature like that hancient wirgin on his arm, then I think there must be somethin' on board."
"But this is purely surmise, Simon. There is no reason why Miss Staggles and Mr. Voltaire may not walk together."