They are in the hands of a man who has no more blood in his heart than there is in a turnip, and we pretend to be Christians, and go to church, and coddle ourselves with comforts, and pay no more attention to them than we should if their souls had gone where their money went.

I tell you it's a sin and a shame, and I know it.

I feel it.

And there's a gentleman among 'em, and his little boy, and they must be taken out of that place, or treated better in it.

I've made up my mind to that, and if the men of Sevenoaks don't straighten matters on that horrible old hill, then they're just no men at all." Mr.Snow smiled a calm, self-respectful smile, that said, as plainly as words could say: "Oh! I know women: they are amiably impulsive, but impracticable." "Have you ever been there ?" inquired Miss Butterworth, sharply.
"Yes, I've been there." "And conscience forbid!" broke in Mrs.Snow, "that he should go again, and bring home what he brought home that time.