I've done it.' 'The scene, the workhouse.' 'Good!' 'And the time, night.' 'Yes.' 'And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves--gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!' 'The lying-in room, I suppose ?' said Mr.Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description.
'Yes,' said the stranger.

'A boy was born there.' 'A many boys,' observed Mr.Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly.
'A murrain on the young devils!' cried the stranger; 'I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker--I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it--and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.
'Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!' said Mr.Bumble; 'I remember him, of course.

There wasn't a obstinater young rascal--' 'It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him,' said the stranger, stopping Mr.Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices.

'It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother.

Where is she ?' 'Where is she ?' said Mr.Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious.