The String of Pearls (1850), p. 501

The officers were a little surprised to hear Sir Richard Blunt call Mrs Lovett's cook, "this gentleman;" but they of course took no notice of the circumstance while in the presence of their principal, and in a few moments the magistrate was alone with the cook.
From a cupboard in his room, then Sir Richard Blunt took wine and other refreshments, and laid them before the cook, saying—
"Refresh yourself, my friend; but for your own sake, as your fare has been but indifferent for some time, I beg you to be sparing."
"I will, sir. I owe you much—very much!"
"You are free now."
"I—am—sir."
"And yet you are very unhappy."
The cook started and changed colour slightly. He filled, for himself, a glass of wine, and after drinking it he heaved a sigh, as he said—
"Sir, I am unhappy. I do not care how soon the world and I part, sir. The hope—the dream of my life has gone from me. All that I lived for—all that I cherished as the brightest expectation of joy in this world has passed away like a vapour, and left not a rack behind. I am unhappy, and better, far better, would it have been for me if Sweeney Todd had taken my life, or if by some subtle poison, Mrs. Lovett had shuffled me out of the world—I am unhappy."
"Indeed! And you really think you have nothing in this world now to live for?"
"I do. But it is not a thought only. It is a knowledge—it is a fact that cannot be gainsaid or controverted, I tell you, sir, that I can never now hope to realise the happiness which was the day-dream of my existence, and which has passed from me like a dream, never—never to come again. It was in
the despair contingent upon such thoughts and feelings, that I went to Mrs. Lovett and became her slave; but now I will be off far away from England, and on some foreign shore I will lay my bones."
"But, my good sir, you will be wanted on the trial of your old friend, Mrs. Lovett."
"Cannot you hang the woman without my help?"
"Yes, I think we might, but so material a witness to her infamy as yourself cannot be dispensed with. Of course I do not pretend to be a conjuror, or to say to any man—You shall be happy in spite of all your prognostications to the contrary but from what you have told me of your story, I must confess that
to my perception you take much too gloomy a view of your condition."
"Too gloomy!" exclaimed the cook, as he filled himself up another glass of wine. "Too gloomy! My dear, sir, you don't know how I loved that girl—you don't know how I—I—But it is no matter now—all that is past. Oh God! that she should be false to me—she of all persons in the great world!"
"And so you will let this little disappointment of the heart, place you in your youth quite beside all possible enjoyment? Is this wise, sir? Is it even manly?"
The poor cook was silent for a few moments, and then in a voice of deep emotion, he said—
"Sir, you don't know how much I loved her. You do not know how I pictured to myself happiness with her alone. You do not know, sir, how, even when death stared me in the face, I thought of her and her only, and how—But no matter—no matter, sir. She is false, and it is madness to speak of her. Let her go, sir. It is just possible that in the time to come, I may outlive the despair that now fills my heart."
"You surely will."
"I do not think it. But I will hope that I may."
"And have you really no hope—no innate lurking supposition in your mind, that you may be doing her an injustice in your suspicions of her faith?"
"Suspicions?"