He told me that I was at liberty to do what I
pleased till seven o'clock, so I went for a walk through the town
with my brother.
The day was drawing to a chill grey close, and the town was filled
with a clammy mist tainted with the odour of sewage, due, I
afterwards discovered, to the popular abuse of the little stream
that gave the place its name. Even my brother could not entirely
escape the melancholy influence of the hour and the place, and he
was glad to take me into a baker's shop and have tea. By now the
illusion of adventure that had reconciled me to leaving home was in
a desperate state, and I drank my tea and consumed my cakes without
enjoyment. If life was always going to be the same--if in fleeing
one misfortune I had merely brought on myself the pain of becoming
accustomed to another--I felt sure that my meagre stoicism would not
suffice to carry me through with credit. I had failed once, I would
fail again. I looked forward with a sinking heart to a tearful and
uncomfortable future.
There was only a very poor train service, so my brother had plenty of
time to walk back to the station, and it was settled that I should go
part of the way with him. As we walked along the white road, that
stretched between uniform hedgerows of a shadowy greyness, I saw that
he had something on his mind. In this hour of my trial I was willing
to forget the past for the sake of talking for a few minutes with
some human being whom I knew, but he returned only vague answers to
my eager questions.
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