It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.
‘An hour this side of midnight,’ said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. ‘Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this.’
‘Ah!’ replied Fagin. ‘What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there’s none quite ready to be done.’
‘You’re right for once,’ replied Sikes gruffly. ‘It is a pity, for I’m in the humour too.’
Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.
‘We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things into a good train. That’s all I know,’ said Sikes.
‘That’s the way to talk, my dear,’ replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. ‘It does me good to hear you.’
‘Does you good, does it!’ cried Sikes. ‘Well, so be it.’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. ‘You’re like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself.’
‘I don’t feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,’ said Sikes, casting off the Jew’s hand.