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parlour, where Mr Snawley and his wife were taking a lobster
supper. ‘Here’s the vagrant--the felon--the rebel--the monster of

‘What! The boy that run away!’ cried Snawley, resting his knife
and fork upright on the table, and opening his eyes to their full

‘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

‘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.

‘Never was such a thing known,’ rejoined Squeers, taking a
little roll of notes from his pocket-book, to see that they were all

‘I have been, Mr Snawley,’ said Mr Squeers, when he had
satisfied himself upon this point, ‘I have been that chap’s
benefactor, feeder, teacher, and clother. I have been that chap’s
classical, commercial, mathematical, philosophical, and
trigonomical friend. My son--my only son, Wackford--has been

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