The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 158: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“Oh, yes, yes; but I was only thinking—” “Thinking of what? Bless me, Mr. Wheeler, how mystifying you are to-night, to be sure. What do you mean by this conduct? Was ever a woman so pestered and tormented with a fool of a man, who looks like an owl in an ivy bush for all the world, or a crow peeping into a marrowbone.” “My duck,* how can you say so?” “Duck indeed? Keep your ducks to yourself. Hoity toity. Duck, indeed. You low good-for-nothing—” “My dear, my dear; I was only thinking, and not in the least wishing to offend.” “But you do offend me, you nasty insinuating, sneering wretch.—What were you thinking about? Tell me this moment.” “Why, that a pretty silver-grey satin mantle would set off your figure so well, that—” “Oh, John!” “That, though quarter-day is near at hand, I think you ought to have one.” “Really, Jackey.” “Yes, my dear.” “What a man you are. Ah, Jackey, after all, though we have, like all people, our little tiffs and wiffs and sniffs—after all, I say it, perhaps, that should not say it, you are a dear, good, obliging—” “Don’t mention it.” “Yes, but—” “No, don’t. By-the-bye, do you know, Susey, that I begin to have my suspicions—mind, I may be wrong, but I begin to have my suspicions, do you know, that our attic lodger is, after all, no better than he should be.” “Gracious!” “Hush! hush! There has been a man here; so ugly—so—so—squintified, if I may say so, that between you and me and the post, my dear, it’s enough to frighten any one to look at him, it is indeed.—But as for the silver-grey satin, don’t stint the quality for a sixpence or so.” “The wretch!” “And take care to have plenty of rich trimming to it.” “The monster!” “And have something pretty to match it, so that when you go to St. Dunstan’s next Sunday, all the folks will ask what fine lady from court has come into the city out of curiosity to see the old church.” “Oh, Jackey.” “That’s what I call,” muttered Mr. Wheeler, “pouring oil upon troubled waters.” He then spoke aloud, saying—“Now, my dear, it is your judgment and advice I want. What shall we do in this case? for you see—first of all, the new lodger denies knowing a soul, and then, in half an hour, an old acquaintance calls upon him here.” The silver-grey satin—the flattering allusion to the probable opinion of the people in St. Dunstan’s Church on the next Sunday—the obscure allusion to a something else to match it, and the appeal to her judgment, all had the effect desired upon Mrs. Wheeler, who, dropping entirely the hectoring tone, fell into her husband’s views, and began calmly and dispassionately, without abuse or crimination, to discuss the merits, or rather the probable demerits, of the new lodger. “T tell you, my dear, my opinion,” said the lady. “As for stopping in the house and not knowing who and what he is, I won’t.” “Certainly not, my love.” “Then, Mr W., the only thing to do, is for you and I to go up stairs, and say that, as I was out, you did not know a Mr. Jones had spoken about the lodging, but that, if he could give a reference in London, we would still have him for a lodger.” “Very well. That will be only civil, and if he says he can’t, but must send to Cambridge—” “Why then, my dear, you must say that he may stay till he writes, and I’ll be guided by his looks. If I give you a nudge, so, with my elbow, you may consider that it’s pretty right.” “Very well, my dove.” @9OQOOOOOO CORniclooo S CO)