The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 260: what you’re looking at

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

CHAPTER LXXV. ANOTHER VICTIM. Johanna started. “St. Dunstan’s,” said the stranger. “What?” said Todd. “St. Dunstan’s last Sunday, I don’t think was so highly-scented with the flavour of the grave as usual.” “Oh,” said Todd. Johanna trembled, for certainly Todd looked suspicious, and yet what could he have seen? Literally nothing, for he was so situated that the slight action of the stranger, in putting the slip of paper into her jacket-pocket, must have escaped him with all his watchfulness. She gathered courage. Todd glanced at her, saying— “What is the matter, Charley? you don’t look well at all, my lad.” “T am not very well, sir.” “How sorry I am; I think, do you know, Charley”’—Todd was lathering the man’s face as he spoke—“that one of Mrs. Lovett’s hot pies would be the thing for you.” “Very likely, sir.” “Then, I think I can manage now to spare you.” As he said this, Todd bent an eagle glance upon the gentleman who had ordered the wig, and it seemed as if he doled out his words to Johanna with a kind of reference to the movements of that personage. The gentleman had found a hat-brush, and was carefully rubbing up his hat. “T do hope,” he said, “that the wig will be as natural as possible.” “Depend upon it, sir,” said Todd. “I'll warrant if you look in here, and try it on some day when there’s no one here but you and I to set you against it, you will never complain of it.” “No doubt. Good morning.” Todd made his best bow, accompanied by the flourish of his razor, that made the man who was being shaved shrink again, as the reflected light from its highly-polished blade flashed again in his eyes. “Now, Charley, I think you may go for your pie,” added Todd, “and don’t hurry, for if anything is wrong with your stomach, that will only make it worse, you know.” “You are a good master to the lad,” said the man who was lathered ready for shaving. “T hope so, sir,” said Todd. “With the help of Providence we all ought to do our best in this world, and yet what a deal of wickedness and suffering there is in it too.” “Ah, there is.” “T am sure, sir, it makes my heart bleed sometimes to think of the amount of suffering that only twenty-four hours of this sad work- a-day world sees. But I was always of a tender and sympathetic turn from my cradle—yes, from my cradle.” Todd made here one of his specially horrible grimaces, which the man happened to see in a glass opposite to him, the reflective focus of which Todd had not calculated upon; and then as the sympathetic barber stopped his razor, the man looked at him as though he would have speculated upon how could such an article looked in a cradle. “Now, sir, a little to this side. Are you going, Charley?” “Yes, sir.” “That will do, sir. Pll polish you off very shortly, indeed, sir. Are you going, Charley?” Johanna darted from the shop, and the moment she got clear of it, she by natural impulse drew the little slip of paper from her pocket, and read upon it— “Miss O.—do not if you can help it, leave any one alone in Todd’s shop, as circumstances may prevent us from always following his customers in; but if you should be forced to leave while any one is there, knock at No. 133 Fleet Street. This is from your friend R. B.” “133?” said Johanna, as she glanced around her, “133? Ah, it is close at hand. Here—here.” The number was only a short distance from Todd’s, and Johanna was making her way to it, when some one stopped her. “From Todd’s,” said a voice. “Yes—yes. A man is there.” “Alone?” “Yes, and 7 Before she could say another word the stranger turned from her, and made his way into Todd’s shop. Johanna paused, and shrinking CORniclooo S CO)