Do I love them? Lucy waves goodbye to me as she takes our Six-month-old Johanna to market. The baby wears a bonnet that matches her mother's. White lace crowns the yellow hair, and I smile.
Am I happier than kings? Am I richer by far than God himself? Shafts of sunlight kiss the silver blades. Thinly-spun, Heaven's grandure touching me here in this dingy shop on Fleet street still shines only half as bright as my true love's hair, my daughter's smile, or the joy in my own reflected eyes in the small looking glass I keep for the customers to examine themselves after a shave.
Am I noble as Lords? Just last week, I neglected to put my coins in the collections plate. I wanted to buy Johanna a particularly fine doll I saw in a shop window. The thing was painted and stitched by hand, all rosy cheaks and soft, wide eyes.. Last month, I told everyone I was ill just for the joy of spending one lazy day with my Lucy. Johanna spent a happy, fun-filled afternoon with Mrs. Lovett, and we danced like fools in the solitary darkness of our upstairs hideaway. We made love, talked of silly things, and exchanged secrets all in the space of three hours. Lucy told me how she and three of her lady friends slipped a live frog in the honorable Judge Turpin's pocket. I told her how just last week, Mrs. Lovett had offered herself to me. It was subtle enough, a slight glimmer of pale shoulder beneath the fabric of her dress and the invitation to her bed whenever Albert was away. I gently but firmly declined, and we went about life as before, she making tea and I talking of trivial things. Lucy laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
Am I free as the wind. No. There are always obligations, always little tasks that need doing, little familiar rituals that take so much time. There are monotonies some would shirk, but that I could not begin to live without. Do I love them? No. It is so much more than that.