The String of Pearls (1850), p. 431

Todd could have struck them for the exertions that they were making, but he dared not even speak one deprecating word to make them pause. He was
condemned only to watch what was going on; and truly a most interesting scene it was.

Mrs. Lovett had on a large cloak, and it was by the aid of that, as well as by the strength of the current, that she floated so long as to make it quite remarkable, and to induce the opinion in the minds of some of the spectators that she was swimming.
Suddenly, just as a boat that had put off from the stairs by the Custom House reached her, down she went.
"Gone!" said Todd.
"Yes, she's gone," said one of the watermen. "She's gone, poor thing, whoever she was, and no one will get her now."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Ah, master, as sure as may be; but you are a witness that it was no fault of ours, master."
"Certainly," said Todd, "The fact if, that she got alarmed the moment the boat shot under the arch, and rose up. I tried to catch her, but she toppled over into the water."
"Natural enough, sir. If she did get up, over she was sure to go. Did you hear what a shriek she gave, Bill? My eye, if I don't dream of that, I'm a Dutchman! I fancy it is ringing in my ears. Yet I have heard a few odd sounds on the river in my time, but that was the very worst."
"And she is gone," said Todd. "Why does that boat linger there upon the spot where she went down? Stay—stay, I cannot see if you pull into shore so quick. Now that barge is between me and the boat."
"There's nothing to see now, sir."
"Well—well. That will do—that will do. Poor creature! Viewing it in one way, my friends, it's a happy release, for she was a little touched in her intellect, poor thing; but it's dreadful to lose one to whom you are much attached; notwithstanding, I shall shed many a tear over her loss, and of the two I had really much rather it had been myself. Alas! alas! you see how deeply affected I am!"
"It's no use grieving, sir."
"Not a whit—not a whit. I know that, but I can't help it. Take that and divide it between you. I give it to you as a kind of assurance that it is not your fault the poor thing fell overboard."
"Thank your honour," said the man in whose huge palm Todd had placed a guinea. "We may be asked who you are possibly, sir, if the body should be found."
"Oh, certainly—certainly," said Todd, "that is well thought of. I am the Rev. Silas Mugginthorpe, preacher at the new chapel in Little Britain. Will you remember?"
"Oh, yes sir. Alls right."
Todd ascended the slippery steps of the little landing-place with an awfully demoniac chuckle upon his face, and when he reached the top of them he struck
his breast with his clenched hand, as he said in a voice of fierce glee—
"'Tis done—'tis done. Ha, ha, ha! 'Tis done. Why, Mrs. Lovett, you have surely been singularly indiscreet to-day. Ha, ha! Food for fishes, if fishes can live in the Thames. Ha, ha! Farewell, Mrs. Lovett, a long farewell to you? So—so you thought, did you, to get the better of Sweeney Todd? To stick to him like a bear until he should be compelled to, what you called, settle with you? Well, he has settled with you—he has! Ha, ha!"
Thus in wild ferocious glee did Todd walk through the city back to his own house after perpetrating this the worst murder, if there can be at all degrees in murder, that he had ever done. People got out of his way as they heard his wild demoniac laugh, and many, after one glance at his awful face, crossed over to the other side of the street with precipitation.