'Release me,' said Simon, struggling to free himself from her chaste,
but spider-like embrace. 'Let me go! I have made arrangements for you in
an altered state of society, and mean to provide for you comfortably in
life--there! Will that satisfy you?'
'Oh Simmun!' cried Miss Miggs. 'Oh my blessed Simmun! Oh mim! what are
my feelings at this conflicting moment!'
Of a rather turbulent description, it would seem; for her nightcap
had been knocked off in the scuffle, and she was on her knees upon
the floor, making a strange revelation of blue and yellow curl-papers,
straggling locks of hair, tags of staylaces, and strings of it's
impossible to say what; panting for breath, clasping her hands, turning
her eyes upwards, shedding abundance of tears, and exhibiting various
other symptoms of the acutest mental suffering.
'I leave,' said Simon, turning to his master, with an utter disregard of
Miggs's maidenly affliction, 'a box of things upstairs. Do what you
like with 'em. I don't want 'em. I'm never coming back here, any more.
Provide yourself, sir, with a journeyman; I'm my country's journeyman;
henceforward that's MY line of business.'
'Be what you like in two hours' time, but now go up to bed,' returned
the locksmith, planting himself in the doorway.
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