Betty Williams continued crying bitterly, and wringing her hands—“Oh, shave me this once, miss! ‘tis the first thing of the kind I ever tid, inteet, inteet! Oh, shave me this once—I tid not know it was worth so much as a shilling, and that I could be hanged, inteet—and I—”
Here Betty was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Puffit, the milliner, the printer’s devil, and a stern-looking man, to whom Mrs. Puffit, as she came in, said, pointing to Betty Williams and Miss Warwick, “There they are—do your duty, Mr. Constable: I’ll swear to my lace.”
“And I’ll swear to my black thumbs,” said the printer’s devil.
“I saw the lace hanging out of her pocket, and there’s the marks of my fingers upon it, Mr. Constable.”
“Fellow!” cried Miss Hodges, taking the constable by the arm, “this is my apartment, into which no minion of the law has a right to enter; for, in England, every man’s house is his castle.”
“I know that as well as you do, madam!” said the constable; “but I make it a principle to do nothing without a warrant: here’s my warrant.”
“Oh, shave me! the lace is hers inteet!” cried Betty Williams, pointing to Miss Warwick. “Oh, miss is my mistress inteet—”
“Come, mistress or miss, then, you’ll be pleased to come along with me,” said the constable, seizing hold of Angelina—“like mistress, like maid.”
“Villain! unfeeling villain! oh, unhand my Angelina, or I shall die! I shall die!” exclaimed Araminta, falling into the arms of Nat Gazabo, who immediately held the replenished glass of brandy to her lips—“Oh, my Angelina, my Angelina!”
Struck with horror at her situation, Miss Warwick shrunk from the grasp of the constable, and leaned motionless on the back of a chair.