It was now two, ay, nearly three days since I had eaten
anything, and I felt somewhat faint; holding the pencil even had taxed me
a little. I had half a penknife and a bunch of keys in my pocket, but not
a farthing.
When the churchyard gate shut I meant to have gone straight home, but,
from an instinctive dread of my room--a vacant tinker's workshop, where
all was dark and barren, and which, in fact, I had got permission to
occupy for the present--I stumbled on, passed, not caring where I went,
the Town Hall, right to the sea, and over to a scat near the railway
bridge.
At this moment not a sad thought troubled me. I forgot my distress, and
felt calmed by the view of the sea, which lay peaceful and lovely in the
murkiness. For old habit's sake I would please myself by reading through
the bit I had just written, and which seemed to my suffering head the best
thing I had ever done.
I took my manuscript out of my pocket to try and decipher it, held it
close up to my eyes, and ran through it, one line after the other. At last
I got tired, and put the papers back in my pocket. Everything was still.
The sea stretched away in pearly blueness, and little birds flitted
noiselessly by me from place to place.
A policeman patrols in the distance; otherwise there is not a soul
visible, and the whole harbour is hushed in quiet.
I count my belongings once more--half a penknife, a bunch of keys, but not
a farthing.
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