‘Work’us,’ said Noah, ‘how’s your mother?’ ‘She’s dead,’ replied Oliver; ‘don’t you say anything about her to me!’ Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge. ‘What did she die of, Work’us?’ said Noah. ‘Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,’ replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. ‘I think I know what it must be to die of that!’ ‘Tol de
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‘Work’us’ - degrading name for people from the workhouse
