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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens</title>

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<h5>
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<p>
      ‘Look down,’ said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. ‘Don’t fear
      me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over
      it, if that had been my game.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble
      himself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid
      water, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all
      other sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against
      the green and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the
      tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of
      machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse,
      when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its
      headlong course.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If you flung a man’s body down there, where would it be to-morrow
      morning?’ said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,’ replied Bumble,
      recoiling at the thought.
    </p>
<p>
      Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly
      thrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of
      some pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It
      fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible
      splash; and was gone.
    </p>
<p>
      The three looking into each other’s faces, seemed to breathe more freely.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There!’ said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into
      its former position. ‘If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it
      will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it.
      We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘By all means,’ observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’ll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?’ said Monks, with a
      threatening look. ‘I am not afraid of your wife.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You may depend upon me, young man,’ answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself
      gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. ‘On everybody’s
      account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,’ remarked Monks. ‘Light your
      lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr.
      Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would
      infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his
      lantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now carried
      in his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in
      silence, followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on
      the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard
      than the beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water.
    </p>
<p>
      They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started
      at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the
      ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously
      light step for a gentleman of his figure: looking nervously about him for
      hidden trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly
      unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a nod with their
      mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and
      darkness outside.
    </p>
<p>
      They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an
      invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been
      hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he
      returned to the chamber he had just quitted.
    </p>
<p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00046">
      CHAPTER XXXIX — INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE
      READER IS ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR
      WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER
    </h2>
<p>
      On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in
      the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein
      narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth
      an inquiry what time of night it was.
    </p>
<p>
      The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those
      he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in
      the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from
      his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation
      as his old quarters: being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very
      limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and
      abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other
      indications of the good gentleman’s having gone down in the world of late:
      for a great scarcity of furniture, and total absence of comfort, together
      with the disappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and
      linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated
      condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms,
      if they had stood in any need of corroboration.
    </p>
<p>
      The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat, by
      way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree
      improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled
      nightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week’s growth. The dog sat at the
      bedside: now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his
      ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the
      lower part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window,
      busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the
      robber’s ordinary dress, was a female: so pale and reduced with watching
      and privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in
      recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale,
      but for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes’s question.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not long gone seven,’ said the girl. ‘How do you feel to-night, Bill?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘As weak as water,’ replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and
      limbs. ‘Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed
      anyhow.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Illness had not improved Mr. Sikes’s temper; for, as the girl raised him
      up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness,
      and struck her.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Whining are you?’ said Sikes. ‘Come! Don’t stand snivelling there. If you
      can’t do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D’ye hear me?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hear you,’ replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a
      laugh. ‘What fancy have you got in your head now?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh! you’ve thought better of it, have you?’ growled Sikes, marking the
      tear which trembled in her eye. ‘All the better for you, you have.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, you don’t mean to say, you’d be hard upon me to-night, Bill,’ said
      the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No!’ cried Mr. Sikes. ‘Why not?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Such a number of nights,’ said the girl, with a touch of woman’s
      tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to
      her voice: ‘such a number of nights as I’ve been patient with you, nursing
      and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first that
      I’ve seen you like yourself; you wouldn’t have served me as you did just
      now, if you’d thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn’t.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, then,’ rejoined Mr. Sikes, ‘I wouldn’t. Why, damme, now, the
      girls’s whining again!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s nothing,’ said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. ‘Don’t you
      seem to mind me. It’ll soon be over.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’ll be over?’ demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. ‘What foolery are
      you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don’t come over me
      with your woman’s nonsense.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was
      delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really
      weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and
      fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths
      with which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his
      threats. Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency;
      for Miss Nancy’s hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the
      patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance; Mr. Sikes
      tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment wholly
      ineffectual, called for assistance.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the matter here, my dear?’ said Fagin, looking in.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Lend a hand to the girl, can’t you?’ replied Sikes impatiently. ‘Don’t
      stand chattering and grinning at me!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl’s assistance,
      while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his
      venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle
      with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master
      Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with
      his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient’s throat:
      previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes.
    </p>
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<h5>
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</h5>
<p>
      ‘Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,’ said Mr.
      Dawkins; ‘and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that
      department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share
      in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in
      producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses;
      and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow:
      leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at
      their unlooked-for appearance.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?’ he asked Fagin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and
      I’ve brought something good with me, that you’ll be glad to see. Dodger,
      my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent
      all our money on, this morning.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      In compliance with Mr. Fagin’s request, the Artful untied this bundle,
      which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the
      articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on
      the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,’ exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to
      view a huge pasty; ‘sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs,
      Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there’s no occasion to
      pick ‘em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong
      that if you mix it with biling water, it’ll go nigh to blow the lid of the
      tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn’t
      work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness,—oh
      no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double
      Glo’ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his
      extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr.
      Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits
      from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat
      without a moment’s hesitation.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. ‘You’ll do,
      Bill; you’ll do now.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do!’ exclaimed Mr. Sikes; ‘I might have been done for, twenty times over,
      afore you’d have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a
      man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Only hear him, boys!’ said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘And us come
      to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The things is well enough in their way,’ observed Mr. Sikes: a little
      soothed as he glanced over the table; ‘but what have you got to say for
      yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt,
      and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time,
      than if I was that ‘ere dog.—Drive him down, Charley!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I never see such a jolly dog as that,’ cried Master Bates, doing as he
      was desired. ‘Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market! He’d
      make his fortun’ on the stage that dog would, and rewive the drama
      besides.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hold your din,’ cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still
      growling angrily. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old
      fence, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant,’ replied
      the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And what about the other fortnight?’ demanded Sikes. ‘What about the
      other fortnight that you’ve left me lying here, like a sick rat in his
      hole?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I couldn’t help it, Bill. I can’t go into a long explanation before
      company; but I couldn’t help it, upon my honour.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Upon your what?’ growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. ‘Here! Cut me off
      a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my
      mouth, or it’ll choke me dead.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Don’t be out of temper, my dear,’ urged Fagin, submissively. ‘I have
      never forgot you, Bill; never once.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No! I’ll pound it that you han’t,’ replied Sikes, with a bitter grin.
      ‘You’ve been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid
      shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do
      that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well: and
      was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn’t been for the girl, I
      might have died.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There now, Bill,’ remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. ‘If
      it hadn’t been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your
      having such a handy girl about you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He says true enough there!’ said Nancy, coming hastily forward. ‘Let him
      be; let him be.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Nancy’s appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys,
      receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor:
      of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an
      unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper,
      by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and,
      moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which,
      after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s all very well,’ said Mr. Sikes; ‘but I must have some blunt from you
      to-night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I haven’t a piece of coin about me,’ replied the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then you’ve got lots at home,’ retorted Sikes; ‘and I must have some from
      there.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Lots!’ cried Fagin, holding up is hands. ‘I haven’t so much as would—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t know how much you’ve got, and I dare say you hardly know
      yourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it,’ said Sikes;
      ‘but I must have some to-night; and that’s flat.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well,’ said Fagin, with a sigh, ‘I’ll send the Artful round
      presently.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You won’t do nothing of the kind,’ rejoined Mr. Sikes. ‘The Artful’s a
      deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged
      by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up
      to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I’ll
      lie down and have a snooze while she’s gone.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount
      of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and
      sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would only
      leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking
      that if he couldn’t get any more he must accompany him home; with the
      Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard. The Jew then,
      taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward, attended by
      Nancy and the boys: Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself on the bed, and
      composing himself to sleep away the time until the young lady’s return.
    </p>
<p>
      In due course, they arrived at Fagin’s abode, where they found Toby
      Crackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage,
      which it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with
      it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his young
      friends. Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing
      himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental
      endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Has nobody been, Toby?’ asked Fagin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a living leg,’ answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; ‘it’s
      been as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to
      recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I’m as flat as a juryman;
      and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn’t had the
      good natur’ to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I’m blessed if I an’t!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept
      up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty
      air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the
      consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the
      room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing
      numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of
      sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at
      fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn’t value his losses the
      snap of his little finger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!’ said Master Bates, highly amused by this
      declaration.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Mr. Chitling. ‘Am I, Fagin?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A very clever fellow, my dear,’ said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder,
      and winking to his other pupils.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an’t he, Fagin?’ asked Tom.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No doubt at all of that, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an’t it, Fagin?’ 
      pursued Tom.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very much so, indeed, my dear. They’re only jealous, Tom, because he
      won’t give it to them.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ cried Tom, triumphantly, ‘that’s where it is! He has cleaned me out.
      But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can’t I, Fagin?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up
      your loss at once, and don’t lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It’s
      time you were on the lay. Come! It’s near ten, and nothing done yet.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats,
      and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they
      went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct,
      it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar:
      inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town,
      who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good
      society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society
      aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same
      footing as flash Toby Crackit.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now,’ said Fagin, when they had left the room, ‘I’ll go and get you that
      cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few
      odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I’ve got
      none to lock up, my dear—ha! ha! ha!—none to lock up. It’s a
      poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I’m fond of seeing the young people
      about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all. Hush!’ he said, hastily
      concealing the key in his breast; ‘who’s that? Listen!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in
      no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person, whoever
      he was, came or went: until the murmur of a man’s voice reached her ears.
      The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with
      the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew,
      turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the
      heat: in a tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the
      extreme haste and violence of this action: which, however, had been
      unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at the time.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bah!’ he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; ‘it’s the man
      I expected before; he’s coming downstairs. Not a word about the money
      while he’s here, Nance. He won’t stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the
      door, as a man’s step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at
      the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was
      close upon the girl before he observed her.
    </p>
<p>
      It was Monks.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Only one of my young people,’ said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back,
      on beholding a stranger. ‘Don’t move, Nancy.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of
      careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she
      stole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if
      there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have
      believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Any news?’ inquired Fagin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Great.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And—and—good?’ asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to
      vex the other man by being too sanguine.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not bad, any way,’ replied Monks with a smile. ‘I have been prompt enough
      this time. Let me have a word with you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room,
      although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew: perhaps
      fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured
      to get rid of her: pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not that infernal hole we were in before,’ she could hear the man say as
      they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not
      reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to
      the second story.
    </p>
<p>
      Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house,
      the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her
      head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with
      breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the
      room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was
      lost in the gloom above.
    </p>
<p>
      The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl
      glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards,
      the two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and
      the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl
      was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, Nance!’ exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the candle,
      ‘how pale you are!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Pale!’ echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look
      steadily at him.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don’t
      know how long and all,’ replied the girl carelessly. ‘Come! Let me get
      back; that’s a dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand.
      They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a
      ‘good-night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and
      seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way.
      Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that
      in which Sikes was awaiting her returned, quickened her pace, until it
      gradually resolved into a violent run. After completely exhausting
      herself, she stopped to take breath: and, as if suddenly recollecting
      herself, and deploring her inability to do something she was bent upon,
      wrung her hands, and burst into tears.
    </p>
<p>
      It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full
      hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with
      nearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover lost
      time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own
      thoughts: soon reached the dwelling where she had left the housebreaker.
    </p>
<p>
      If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he
      did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and
      receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction,
      and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her
      arrival had interrupted.
    </p>
<p>
      It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so
      much employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had
      so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper;
      that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her
      behaviour and deportment. That she had all the abstracted and nervous
      manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous step, which it
      has required no common struggle to resolve upon, would have been obvious
      to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have taken the alarm at
      once; but Mr. Sikes lacking the niceties of discrimination, and being
      troubled with no more subtle misgivings than those which resolve
      themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour towards everybody; and
      being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable condition, as has been already
      observed; saw nothing unusual in her demeanor, and indeed, troubled
      himself so little about her, that, had her agitation been far more
      perceptible than it was, it would have been very unlikely to have awakened
      his suspicions.
    </p>
<p>
      As that day closed in, the girl’s excitement increased; and, when night
      came on, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink
      himself asleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in
      her eye, that even Sikes observed with astonishment.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water
      with his gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass
      towards Nancy to be replenished for the third or fourth time, when these
      symptoms first struck him.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, burn my body!’ said the man, raising himself on his hands as he
      stared the girl in the face. ‘You look like a corpse come to life again.
      What’s the matter?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Matter!’ replied the girl. ‘Nothing. What do you look at me so hard for?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What foolery is this?’ demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and
      shaking her roughly. ‘What is it? What do you mean? What are you thinking
      of?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of many things, Bill,’ replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so,
      pressing her hands upon her eyes. ‘But, Lord! What odds in that?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed to
      produce a deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look which
      had preceded them.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I tell you wot it is,’ said Sikes; ‘if you haven’t caught the fever, and
      got it comin’ on, now, there’s something more than usual in the wind, and
      something dangerous too. You’re not a-going to—. No, damme! you
      wouldn’t do that!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do what?’ asked the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There ain’t,’ said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the
      words to himself; ‘there ain’t a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I’d have
      cut her throat three months ago. She’s got the fever coming on; that’s
      it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the
      bottom, and then, with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic. The
      girl jumped up, with great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but with her
      back towards him; and held the vessel to his lips, while he drank off the
      contents.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now,’ said the robber, ‘come and sit aside of me, and put on your own
      face; or I’ll alter it so, that you won’t know it agin when you do want
      it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the
      pillow: turning his eyes upon her face. They closed; opened again; closed
      once more; again opened. He shifted his position restlessly; and, after
      dozing again, and again, for two or three minutes, and as often springing
      up with a look of terror, and gazing vacantly about him, was suddenly
      stricken, as it were, while in the very attitude of rising, into a deep
      and heavy sleep. The grasp of his hand relaxed; the upraised arm fell
      languidly by his side; and he lay like one in a profound trance.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The laudanum has taken effect at last,’ murmured the girl, as she rose
      from the bedside. ‘I may be too late, even now.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl: looking fearfully
      round, from time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she
      expected every moment to feel the pressure of Sikes’s heavy hand upon her
      shoulder; then, stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the robber’s
      lips; and then opening and closing the room-door with noiseless touch,
      hurried from the house.
    </p>
<p>
      A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which
      she had to pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Has it long gone the half-hour?’ asked the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’ll strike the hour in another quarter,’ said the man: raising his
      lantern to her face.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more,’ muttered Nancy:
      brushing swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street.
    </p>
<p>
      Many of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues
      through which she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards the
      West-End of London. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience. She
      tore along the narrow pavement: elbowing the passengers from side to side;
      and darting almost under the horses’ heads, crossed crowded streets, where
      clusters of persons were eagerly watching their opportunity to do the
      like.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The woman is mad!’ said the people, turning to look after her as she
      rushed away.
    </p>
<p>
      When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were
      comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still
      greater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened
      their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an
      unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at
      her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and when she neared
      her place of destination, she was alone.
    </p>
<p>
      It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As
      the brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided her to
      the spot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as
      though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound
      determined her, and she stepped into the hall. The porter’s seat was
      vacant. She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards
      the stairs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now, young woman!’ said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door
      behind her, ‘who do you want here?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A lady who is stopping in this house,’ answered the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A lady!’ was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. ‘What lady?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Miss Maylie,’ said Nancy.
    </p>
<p>
      The young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied only
      by a look of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her. To him,
      Nancy repeated her request.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What name am I to say?’ asked the waiter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s of no use saying any,’ replied Nancy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nor business?’ said the man.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, nor that neither,’ rejoined the girl. ‘I must see the lady.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come!’ said the man, pushing her towards the door. ‘None of this. Take
      yourself off.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I shall be carried out if I go!’ said the girl violently; ‘and I can make
      that a job that two of you won’t like to do. Isn’t there anybody here,’ 
      she said, looking round, ‘that will see a simple message carried for a
      poor wretch like me?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with
      some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to
      interfere.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Take it up for her, Joe; can’t you?’ said this person.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the good?’ replied the man. ‘You don’t suppose the young lady will
      see such as her; do you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This allusion to Nancy’s doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of
      chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great
      fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly
      advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do what you like with me,’ said the girl, turning to the men again; ‘but
      do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God
      Almighty’s sake.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the
      man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s it to be?’ said the man, with one foot on the stairs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,’ said
      Nancy; ‘and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say,
      she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of
      doors as an impostor.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I say,’ said the man, ‘you’re coming it strong!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You give the message,’ said the girl firmly; ‘and let me hear the
      answer.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless,
      listening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of
      which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became
      still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk
      upstairs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s no good being proper in this world,’ said the first housemaid.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,’ said the
      second.
    </p>
<p>
      The third contented herself with wondering ‘what ladies was made of’; and
      the fourth took the first in a quartette of ‘Shameful!’ with which the
      Dianas concluded.
    </p>
<p>
      Regardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy
      followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber, lighted
      by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0040"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00047">
      CHAPTER XL — A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST
      CHAMBER
    </h2>
<p>
      The girl’s life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most
      noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the
      woman’s original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step
      approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and
      thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment
      contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and
      shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she
      had sought this interview.
    </p>
<p>
      But struggling with these better feelings was pride,—the vice of the
      lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and
      self-assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen
      outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and
      hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself,—even this
      degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly
      feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with
      that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many
      traces when a very child.
    </p>
<p>
      She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which
      presented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending
      them on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she
      said:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and
      gone away, as many would have done, you’d have been sorry for it one day,
      and not without reason either.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,’ replied Rose. ‘Do
      not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you
      inquired for.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the
      absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl
      completely by surprise, and she burst into tears.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, lady, lady!’ she said, clasping her hands passionately before her
      face, ‘if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me,—there
      would—there would!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Sit down,’ said Rose, earnestly. ‘If you are in poverty or affliction I
      shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can,—I shall indeed. Sit
      down.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let me stand, lady,’ said the girl, still weeping, ‘and do not speak to
      me so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is—is—that
      door shut?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in
      case she should require it. ‘Why?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Because,’ said the girl, ‘I am about to put my life and the lives of
      others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old
      Fagin’s on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You!’ said Rose Maylie.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I, lady!’ replied the girl. ‘I am the infamous creature you have heard
      of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first moment I
      can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets have known any
      better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do
      not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would
      think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall
      back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What dreadful things are these!’ said Rose, involuntarily falling from
      her strange companion.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,’ cried the girl, ‘that you had
      friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were
      never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and—and—something
      worse than all—as I have been from my cradle. I may use the word,
      for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my deathbed.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I pity you!’ said Rose, in a broken voice. ‘It wrings my heart to hear
      you!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Heaven bless you for your goodness!’ rejoined the girl. ‘If you knew what
      I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away from
      those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to tell
      you what I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ said Rose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He knows you,’ replied the girl; ‘and knew you were here, for it was by
      hearing him tell the place that I found you out.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I never heard the name,’ said Rose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then he goes by some other amongst us,’ rejoined the girl, ‘which I more
      than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into
      your house on the night of the robbery, I—suspecting this man—listened
      to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out,
      from what I heard, that Monks—the man I asked you about, you know—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ said Rose, ‘I understand.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘—That Monks,’ pursued the girl, ‘had seen him accidently with two
      of our boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be
      the same child that he was watching for, though I couldn’t make out why. A
      bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have
      a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this
      Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘For what purpose?’ asked Rose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of
      finding out,’ said the girl; ‘and there are not many people besides me
      that could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I
      did; and I saw him no more till last night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And what occurred then?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs,
      and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray me, again
      listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these: “So
      the only proofs of the boy’s identity lie at the bottom of the river, and
      the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.”
       They laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking
      on about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the
      young devil’s money safely now, he’d rather have had it the other way;
      for, what a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the
      father’s will, by driving him through every jail in town, and then hauling
      him up for some capital felony which Fagin could easily manage, after
      having made a good profit of him besides.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What is all this!’ said Rose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,’ replied the girl. ‘Then,
      he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that
      if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy’s life without bringing
      his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn’t, he’d be upon the
      watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his
      birth and history, he might harm him yet. “In short, Fagin,” he says, “Jew
      as you are, you never laid such snares as I’ll contrive for my young
      brother, Oliver.”’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘His brother!’ exclaimed Rose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Those were his words,’ said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had
      scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes
      haunted her perpetually. ‘And more. When he spoke of you and the other
      lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against him,
      that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was
      some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds of thousands
      of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged
      spaniel was.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You do not mean,’ said Rose, turning very pale, ‘to tell me that this was
      said in earnest?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,’ replied the girl,
      shaking her head. ‘He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many
      who do worse things; but I’d rather listen to them all a dozen times, than
      to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without
      suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back
      quickly.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘But what can I do?’ said Rose. ‘To what use can I turn this communication
      without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in
      such terrible colors? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I
      can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some
      place of safety without half an hour’s delay.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I wish to go back,’ said the girl. ‘I must go back, because—how can
      I tell such things to an innocent lady like you?—because among the
      men I have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all;
      that I can’t leave: no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading
      now.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Your having interfered in this dear boy’s behalf before,’ said Rose;
      ‘your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard;
      your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident
      contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet
      be reclaimed. Oh!’ said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears
      coursed down her face, ‘do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of
      your own sex; the first—the first, I do believe, who ever appealed
      to you in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me
      save you yet, for better things.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Lady,’ cried the girl, sinking on her knees, ‘dear, sweet, angel lady,
      you <i>are</i> the first that ever blessed me with such words as these,
      and if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life
      of sin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is never too late,’ said Rose, ‘for penitence and atonement.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is,’ cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; ‘I cannot leave
      him now! I could not be his death.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why should you be?’ asked Rose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing could save him,’ cried the girl. ‘If I told others what I have
      told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the
      boldest, and has been so cruel!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is it possible,’ cried Rose, ‘that for such a man as this, you can resign
      every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t know what it is,’ answered the girl; ‘I only know that it is so,
      and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as
      myself. I must go back. Whether it is God’s wrath for the wrong I have
      done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering
      and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew that I was to die by
      his hand at last.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What am I to do?’ said Rose. ‘I should not let you depart from me thus.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You should, lady, and I know you will,’ rejoined the girl, rising. ‘You
      will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced
      no promise from you, as I might have done.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?’ said Rose. ‘This
      mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me, benefit
      Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a
      secret, and advise you what to do,’ rejoined the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘But where can I find you again when it is necessary?’ asked Rose. ‘I do
      not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be
      walking or passing at any settled period from this time?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come
      alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not
      be watched or followed?’ asked the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I promise you solemnly,’ answered Rose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve,’ said the
      girl without hesitation, ‘I will walk on London Bridge if I am alive.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stay another moment,’ interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly
      towards the door. ‘Think once again on your own condition, and the
      opportunity you have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me: not only
      as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost
      beyond redemption. Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this
      man, when a word can save you? What fascination is it that can take you
      back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery? Oh! is there no chord
      in your heart that I can touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can
      appeal against this terrible infatuation!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,’ replied the
      girl steadily, ‘give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths—even
      such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything, to fill
      them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffin-lid, and no
      friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts
      on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank through all
      our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady—pity us
      for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned,
      by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride, into a new means of
      violence and suffering.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You will,’ said Rose, after a pause, ‘take some money from me, which may
      enable you to live without dishonesty—at all events until we meet
      again?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a penny,’ replied the girl, waving her hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,’ said Rose,
      stepping gently forward. ‘I wish to serve you indeed.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You would serve me best, lady,’ replied the girl, wringing her hands, ‘if
      you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of
      what I am, to-night, than I ever did before, and it would be something not
      to die in the hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and
      send as much happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while
      Rose Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which had more
      the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a
      chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.
    </p>
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