What a blessed refuge it was,
there under the great dome, when he must else have sat in his
windy garret with the mere pretence of a fire! The Reading-room
was his true home; its warmth enwrapped him kindly; the peculiar
odour of its atmosphere--at first a cause of headache--grew dear
and delightful to him. But he could not sit here until his last
penny should be spent. Something practical must be done, and
practicality was not his strong point.
Friends in London he had none; but for an occasional conversation
with his landlady he would scarcely have spoken a dozen words in
a week. His disposition was the reverse of democratic, and he
could not make acquaintances below his own intellectual level.
Solitude fostered a sensitiveness which to begin with was
extreme; the lack of stated occupation encouraged his natural
tendency to dream and procrastinate and hope for the improbable.
He was a recluse in the midst of millions, and viewed with dread
the necessity of going forth to fight for daily food.
Little by little he had ceased to hold any correspondence with
his former friends at Hereford.
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