Back she flew into the inn, overturning the ostler, not deigning to answer Doctor Dobbs (who, from behind soft tobacco-fumes, mildly asked the reason of her disturbance), and, bounding upstairs like a fury, she rushed into the room where Catherine lay.
"Well, madam!" said she, in her highest key, "do you mean that you have come into this here house to swindle me?
Do you dare for to come with your airs here, and call yourself a nobleman's lady, and sleep in the best bed, when you're no better nor a common tramper?
I'll thank you, ma'am, to get out, ma'am.

I'll have no sick paupers in this house, ma'am.

You know your way to the workhouse, ma'am, and there I'll trouble you for to go." And here Mrs.Score proceeded quickly to pull off the bedclothes; and poor Cat arose, shivering with fright and fever.
She had no spirit to answer, as she would have done the day before, when an oath from any human being would have brought half-a-dozen from her in return; or a knife, or a plate, or a leg of mutton, if such had been to her hand.

She had no spirit left for such repartees; but in reply to the above words of Mrs.Score, and a great many more of the same kind--which are not necessary for our history, but which that lady uttered with inconceivable shrillness and volubility, the poor wench could say little,--only sob and shiver, and gather up the clothes again, crying, "Oh, aunt, don't speak unkind to me! I'm very unhappy, and very ill!" "Ill, you strumpet! ill, be hanged! Ill is as ill does; and if you are ill, it's only what you merit.

Get out! dress yourself--tramp! Get to the workhouse, and don't come to cheat me any more! Dress yourself--do you hear?
Satin petticoat forsooth, and lace to her smock!" Poor, wretched, chattering, burning, shivering Catherine huddled on her clothes as well she might: she seemed hardly to know or see what she was doing, and did not reply a single word to the many that the landlady let fall.