The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 172: what you’re looking at

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

find?” Mrs. Lovett looked, and then, after an effort, she said— “Todd, I was going to speak to you of that man.” “Ah!” “Listen; I suspect him. For some days past he has haunted the shop, and makes endeavours to become acquainted with me. I did not think it sound policy wholly to shun him, but gave him such encouragement as might supply me with opportunities of judging if he were a spy or not.” “Humph!” “T think him dangerous.” Todd’s eyes glistened like burning coals. “Should he come into your shop to be shaved, Todd—” “Ha! ha!” The horrible laugh rang through the place, and Mrs. Lovett’s lover, with the moustache, sprung to the other side of Bell Yard, for the unearthly sound even reached his ears as he was peeping through the window to catch a glimpse of the charming widow. “You understand me, Todd?” “Perfectly—perfectly—I shall know him again. Ah, my dear Mrs. Lovett, how dangerous it is to be safe in this world. Even our virtue cannot escape detraction; but we will live in hopes of better times. You and I will show the world, yet, what wealth is.” “Yes—yes.” Todd crept close to her, and was about to place his arm round her waist, but she started from him, exclaiming— “No—no, Todd—a thousand times no. Have we not before quarrelled upon this point? Do not approach me, or our compact, infernal as it is, is at an end. I have sold my soul to you, but I have not bartered myself.” The expression of Todd’s countenance at this juncture was that of an incarnate fiend. He glared at Mrs. Lovett as though with the horrible fascination of his ugliness he would overcome her, and then slowly rising, he said— “Her soul—ha! She has sold her soul to me—ha! I will call to-morrow.” He left the shop, and as he passed the gent who, by force of his moustache, hoped to win the affections of Mrs. Lovett, he gave him such a look that he terrified him, and the gent found himself in the shop before he was aware. “Bless me, what a horrid looking fellow! I swear by my courage and honour I never saw such a face. Ah, my charmer! Who was that left your charming presence just now?” “Some one who came for a pie.” ’ “’Pon honour, he’s enough to poison all the pies! Oh, you beauty, yo—ou—ou—ou ’ The gallant’s mouth was so full of a veal pie that he had stuffed into it that for some few moments he could not produce an intelligible sound. When he had recovered, he walked into the parlour and sat down, saying— “Now, Mrs. Lovett, here am I, pon honour, your humble servant, and stop my breath if I’d say as much to the commander-in-chief. When’s the happy day to be?” “Do you really love me?” “Do I love you? Do I love fighting? Do I love honour—glory? Do I love eating and drinking? Do I love myself?” “Ah, Major Bounce, you military men are so gallant.” “Pon honour we are. General Cavendish used to say to me—‘Bounce,’ says he, ‘if you don’t make your fortune by war, which you ought to do, Bounce, ’pon honour, you will make it by love.’ ‘General,’ says I—now I was always ready for a smart answer, Mrs. Lovett—so ‘General,’ says I, ‘the same to you!’” “Very smart.” “Yes, wasn’t it. Pon honour it was, and ’pon soul you looks more and more charming every day that I see you.” “Oh, you flatterer!” “No—no. Bar flattering—bar flattering. His Majesty has often said, ‘Talk of flattery. Oh dear, Bounce is the man for me. He is right down—straight up—off handed. And no sort of mistake, on—on—on.’” Another pie converted the oratory of the major into something between a grunt and a sigh. “But major, I’m afraid that you will regret marrying me. If I convert all I have into money”—the major pricked up his ears—“I could not make of it more than fifty thousand pounds.” The major’s eyes opened to the size of pint saucers, as he said— “Fifty—fift—fif—Say it again!” “Fifty thousand pounds.” The major rose and embraced Mrs. Lovett. Tears actually came into his eyes, and gulping down the pie, he cried— “You have fifty thousand charms. Only let me be your slave, your dog, damme* -—your dog, Mrs. Lovett, and I shall consider myself the luckiest dog in the world, but not for the money—not for the money. No, as the Marquis of Cleveland once said, ‘If you want a thoroughly disinterested man, go to Bounce.’” “Well, major, since we understand each other so well, there are two little things that I must name as my conditions.” CORniclooo S CO)