“A muddling and a swipey old child,” said Miss Wren, rating him with great severity, “fit for nothing but to be preserved in the liquor that destroys him, and put in a great glass bottle as a sight for other swipey children of his own pattern⁠—if he has no consideration for his liver, has he none for his mother?”

“Yes. Deration, oh don’t!” cried the subject of these angry remarks.

“Oh don’t and oh don’t,” pursued Miss Wren. “It’s oh do and oh do. And why do you?”

“Won’t do so any more. Won’t indeed. Pray!”

“There!” said Miss Wren, covering her eyes with her hand. “I can’t bear to look at you. Go upstairs and get me my bonnet and shawl. Make yourself useful in some way, bad boy, and let me have your room instead of your company, for one half minute.”