'Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,' replied
Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering
Noah. 'I think I know what it must be to die of that!'

'Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us,' said Noah, as a
tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. 'What's set you a snivelling
now?'

'Not _you_,' replied Oliver, sharply. 'There; that's enough. Don't
say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!'

'Better not!' exclaimed Noah. 'Well! Better not! Work'us,
don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she
was. Oh, Lor!' And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and
curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could
collect together, for the occasion.

'Yer know, Work'us,' continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's
silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all
tones the most annoying: 'Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped
now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry
for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer
must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un.'

'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.

'A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us,' replied Noah, coolly.
'And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she
did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or