Oh, no thanks were needed; it
had been a pleasure to me. Good-bye!
I went on. At last I was freed from this work-ridden plague, and I could
go my way in peace. I turned down Pyle Street again, and stopped before a
grocer's shop. The whole window was filled with eatables, and I decided to
go in and get something to take with me.
"A piece of cheese and a French roll," I said, and threw my sixpence on to
the counter.
"Bread and cheese for the whole of it?" asked the woman ironically,
without looking up at me.
"For the whole sixpence? Yes," I answered, unruffled.
I took them up, bade the fat old woman good-morning, with the utmost
politeness, and sped, full tilt, up Castle Hill to the park.
I found a bench to myself, and began to bite greedily into my provender.
It did me good; it was a long time since I had had such a square meal,
and, by degrees, I felt the same sated quiet steal over me that one feels
after a good long cry. My courage rose mightily. I could no longer be
satisfied with writing an article about anything so simple and
straight-ahead as the "Crimes of Futurity," that any ass might arrive at,
ay, simply deduct from history. I felt capable of a much greater effort
than that; I was in a fitting mood to overcome difficulties, and I decided
on a treatise, in three sections, on "Philosophical Cognition." This
would, naturally, give me an opportunity of crushing pitiably some of
Kant's sophistries .
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