The String of Pearls (1850), p. 152

"I come—I come," she said, "I am saved."
"Come slowly—for God's sake, do not hurry."
" No, no."
At this moment Tobias heard the frail rope giving way; there was a tearing sound—it broke, and she fell. Lights, too, at that unlucky moment flashed from the house, and it was now evident an alarm had been given. What could he do? if two could not be saved he might himself be saved. He turned, and flung his feet over the wall; he hung by his hands as low as he could, and then he dropped the remainder of the distance. He was hurt, but in a moment he sprang to his feet, for he felt that safety could only lay in instant and rapid flight. The terror of pursuit was so strong upon him that he forgot his bruises.
* * * * * *
"Thank Heaven," exclaimed Tobias, "I am at last free from that horrible place. Oh, if I can but reach London now, I shall be safe; and as for Sweeney Todd, let him beware, for a day of retribution for him cannot be far off."
So saying, Tobias turned his steps towards the city, and at a hard trot, soon left Peckham Rye far behind him as he pursued his route.

CHAPTER XXX.

MRS. LOVETT'S COOK MAKES A DESPERATE ATTEMPT.

There are folks who can and who will bow like reeds to the decrees of evil fortune, and with a patient, ass-like placidity, go on bearing the ruffles of a thankless world without complaining, but Mrs. Lovett's new cook was not one of those. The more destiny seemed to say to him—"Be quiet!" the more he
writhed, and wriggled, and fumed, and could not be quiet. The more fate whispered in his ears—"You can do nothing," the more intent he was upon doing something, let it be what it might. And he had a little something, in the shape of a respite too, now, for had he not baked a batch of pies, and sent them
up to the devouring fangs of the lawyers' clerks in all their gelatinous beauty and gushing sweetness, to be devoured. To be sure he had, and therefore having, for a space, obeyed the behests of his task-mistress, he could sit with his head resting upon his hands and think. Thought! What a luxury! Where
is the Indian satrap—where the arch Inquisitor—where the grasping, dis-
honest, scheming employer who can stop a man from thinking? —and as Shakspeare, says of sleep,

"From that sleep, what dreams may come?

so might he have said of thought,

From that thought what acts may come?

Now we are afraid that, in the first place, the cook, in spite of himself, uttered some expression concerning Mrs. Lovett of neither an evangelical or a polite character, and with these we need not trouble the reader. They acted as a sort
of safety-valve to his feelings, and after consigning that fascinating female to a certain warm place, where we may fancy everybody's pie might be cooked on the very shortest notice, he got a little more calm.
"What shall I do?—what shall I do?"
Such was the rather vague question he asked of himself. Alas! how often are those four simple words linked together, finding but a vain echo in the overcharged heart. What shall I do? Ay, what!—small power had he to do anything, except the quietest thing of all—that one thing which Heaven in its
mercy has left for every wretch to do if it so pleases him—to die! But, somehow or another, a man upon the up-hill side of life is apt to think he may do