'Here we are!' said Squeers, hurrying Smike into the little parlour,
where Mr Snawley and his wife were taking a lobster supper. 'Here's the
vagrant--the felon--the rebel--the monster of unthankfulness.'
'What! The boy that run away!' cried Snawley, resting his knife and fork
upright on the table, and opening his eyes to their full width.
'The very boy', said Squeers, putting his fist close to Smike's nose,
and drawing it away again, and repeating the process several times, with
a vicious aspect. 'If there wasn't a lady present, I'd fetch him such
a--: never mind, I'll owe it him.'
And here Mr Squeers related how, and in what manner, and when and where,
he had picked up the runaway.
'It's clear that there has been a Providence in it, sir,' said Mr
Snawley, casting down his eyes with an air of humility, and elevating
his fork, with a bit of lobster on the top of it, towards the ceiling.
'Providence is against him, no doubt,' replied Mr Squeers, scratching
his nose. 'Of course; that was to be expected. Anybody might have known
that.'
'Hard-heartedness and evil-doing will never prosper, sir,' said Mr
Snawley.
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