'What 'ave you brought 'im 'ere for?'
''E is 'ungry, and I am going to give 'im food; 'e is 'omeless, and I am going to give 'im shelter.'
'Shelter? Where?'
'Here, in my 'ouse, in my bed.'
'In my bed!' screamed Mrs Clinton. 'Not if I know it! 'Ere, you,' she said, addressing the man, and pushing past her husband. 'Out you get! I'm not going to 'ave tramps and loafers in my 'ouse. Get out!' Mrs Clinton was an energetic woman, and a strong one. Catching hold of her husband's stick, and flourishing it, she opened the front door.
'Amy! Amy!' expostulated Mr Clinton.
'Now, then, you be quiet. I've 'ad about enough of you! Get on out, will you?'
The man made a rush for the door, and as he scrambled down the steps she caught him a smart blow on the back, and slammed the door behind him. Then, returning to the sitting-room, she sank panting on a chair. Mr Clinton slowly recovered from his surprise.
'Woman,' he said, this being now his usual mode of address—he spoke solemnly and sadly—'you 'ave cast out your brother, you 'ave cast out your husband, you 'ave cast out yourself.'
'Don't talk to me!' said Mrs Clinton, very wrathfully. 'It's bed time now; come along upstairs.'