The child's words run through you like a burglar through a respectful household. You reel, asking yourself how you ever ended up in this situation. Yet, it is your calling to guide the poor miscreants of this parish and save them from the filth and degeneracy inherent to their class.
You are ${...Mr. or Mrs....} Thrifty, proprietor and board member of the Bilberry Workhouse For The Poor And Degenerates. You serve all of Bilberry parish, taking in the unwashed masses and teaching them the proper Victorian values of cleanliness and proper conduct. Most of your charges are young adults, ages eight to ten, although this is not technically correct. Most agree that The Poor reach adulthood at the age of seven, but you believe in mercy, so you afford them an extra year to learn how to comport themselves.
As you stand in stunned silence, he repeats his query, hammering home his gluttonous vice. You know him and his ilk are ingrained with vices from birth. Under your careful care though, they may learn—as quickly as the poor can—to act like proper individuals. You survey the dining room as his friends nod in agreement.
"Please, I'd like some more," he says meekly, almost without conviction.
You scoff, but before you can answer, one of your workers runs in.
"There's been an accident!" the man shouts. "One of the children has been crushed in the rollers!"
You sigh and head to the work-floor. The machine has been stopped and the production of dollhouse wallpaper has been sinfully halted. You see the other workers staring dumbfounded at the corpse twisted on the rollers. Inaction, it seems, is another vice of The Poor.
"What are you waiting for?" you shout at the group. "Get him out of there!"
They begin to disentangle the boy from the machine as you clutch your brow. Yesterday a boy fell into the arsenic vat, and now this? You don't know how you'll be able to keep up with the demand with these constant interruptions. Perhaps you're being too soft on these wretches?
You watch as