"Oh, it's Sue! It's my darling Sue;" exclaimed Giles, a light breaking all over his face. "'As yer brought news of Sue, boy?"
"Be Sue a thimble, scissors, or a gel?"
"Oh! a gel, in course—my own dear, dear, only sister."
"A little, fat, podgy kind o' woman-gel, wid a fine crop o' freckles and sandy hair?"
"Yes, yes; that's she. I have bin waiting fur her hall night. Where is she? Please, please, Pickles, where is she?"
"Well, can't yer guess? Where 'ud she be likely ter be? She worn't a wandering sort o' gel, as neglected her home duties, wor she?"
"Oh no! she never stayed out in hall her life afore."
"She worn't, so to speak, a gel as wor given to pilfer, and might be tuk to cool herself in the lock-up."
"Never—never! Sue 'ud sooner die than take wot worn't her own; and I wish I wor strong enough to punch yer head fur thinkin' sech a thing," said Giles, his face now crimson with indignation.
"Well, softly, softly, young un; I didn't say as she did pilfer. I think that 'ere podgy gel as honest as the day. But now, can't yer guess where she his?"