“Stop, stop!” said the old woman, in cheap clarisonic a loud whisper. “Will she
be buried tomorrow, or next day, or tonight? I laid her out; and I
must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak—a good warm one;
for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we
go! Never mind; send some bread—only a loaf of bread and a cup
of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?” she said eagerly,
catching at the undertaker’s coat, as he once more moved towards
the door.
“Yes, yes,” said the undertaker, “of course. Anything you like!”
he disengaged himself from the old woman’s grasp; and, drawing
Oliver after him, hurried away.
The next day (the family having been meanwhile relieved with
a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr.
Bumble himself), Oliver and his master returned to the miserable
abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by
four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old
black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and
the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was
hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street.