The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 278: what you’re looking at

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

CHAPTER LXXXI. MRS. LOVETT FINDS THAT IN THIS WORLD THERE IS RETRIBUTION. Be so good, reader, as to picture to yourself the look of Mrs. Lovett. We feel that one brief moment of imagination will do more to enable you to feel and to see with “Your mind’s eye” her aspect, than as if we were to try a paragraph upon the subject. How that he! he! he! of Mr. Brown’s rung in her ears. It was at any time almost enough to provoke a saint, and we need not say that this time of all others was not one at which Mrs. Lovett’s feelings were attuned to gentleness and patience. Besides, she certainly was no saint. A rather heavy inkstand stood upon the table between Mrs. Lovett and the stock-broker. The next moment it narrowly escaped his head, leaving in its progress over his frontispiece a long streak of ink down his visage. “Wretch!” said Mrs. Lovett. “It is not true.” “Murder!” cried Mr. Brown. Mrs. Lovett covered her face with both her hands for a moment, as though, to enable her to think clearly, it were necessary to shut out the external world; and then starting up, she advanced to the door of the room. “Murder!” said the stock-broker again. Silence. “A constable.” “If you dare to say one word of this interview, I will return, and tear you limb from limb.” Mrs. Lovett opened the door of the private room with such a vengeance that the nose of the clerk, who had been listening upon the other side, was seriously damaged thereby. He started back with a howl of pain. “Fool!” said Mrs. Lovett, as she passed him, and that was all she condescended to say to him;—not by any means an agreeable reminiscence of his last words with a lady to a gentleman who prided himself upon his looks—rather! Mrs. Lovett reached the street, and walked for some distance as though street it was not. She was only roused to a sense of the world in which she was, by hearing the sound of a voice calling— “Mum—mum! Here yer is—mum—mum! woo!” She turned and saw the coach in which she had come to the stock-broker. “Going back, mum?” said the man. “Yes, yes.” She stepped into the vehicle, looking more like an animated statue than aught human. The man stood touching what was once the brim of a hat, as he said— “Where to, mum?” Mrs. Lovett looked at him with an air of such abstraction that it was quite clear she did not see him, but she heard the question, that came to her like an echo in the air. “Where to, mum?” “To Fleet Street!” Wheeze—creak—wheeze—creak—sway—sway, and the coach moved on again. Mrs. Lovett sunk down among the straw with which the lower part of the vehicle was plentifully strewed; and then, with her head resting upon the seat, her throbbing temples clasped in her hands, she tried to think. Yes— she called upon all that calmness—that decision—that talent or tact, call it which you will that had saved her for, so long, not to desert her now in this hour of her dire extremity. She called upon everything for aid but upon Heaven! and then, to ease her mind, she cursed a little. Somebody says— “Swearing when the passions are at war, And light the chambers of the brain with angers flash, Has an effect quite moral—a kind of safety valve, Sparing what might be a tremendous crash!” and so Mrs. Lovett got cooler, but not a whit the less determined, as the crazy vehicle conveyed her to Fleet Street. She fully intended now to measure conclusions with Todd. The distance was so short that even a hackney-coach performed it with tolerable promptitude. Mrs. Lovett did not wish to alight exactly at the door of Todd’s shop; so she was rather glad upon finding the coach stop at the corner of Fleet Street by the old Market, and the driver demanded what number? “This will do.” She was in the street in another minute. It took a minute to get out of a hackney-coach. It was like watching the moment to spring from a boat to the shore in a heavy surf. And yet, oh much vilified old hackney-coach! how much superior wert thou to thy bastard son, the present odious rattling, bumping, angular, bone-dislocating, horrid cab! The driver received about double his fare, and a cab-man of the present day would have gathered a mob by his vociferations, and blackguarded you into a shop, if you had treated him in such a way. Nothing less than three times what he’s entitled to ever lights up the smallest spark of civility in the soul of a modern cab-driver, CORniclooo S