'It has come to
the question of how we are to subsist. I thought you would rather
get money in this way than borrow of mother--when she has the
expense of keeping me and Willie.'
'You are right,' muttered Reardon. 'Do as you think best.' Amy
was in her most practical mood, and would not linger for
purposeless talk. A few minutes, and Reardon was left alone.
He stood before his bookshelves and began to pick out the volumes
which he would take away with him. Just a few, the indispensable
companions of a bookish man who still clings to life--his Homer,
his Shakespeare--
The rest must be sold. He would get rid of them to-morrow
morning. All together they might bring him a couple of
sovereigns.
Then his clothing. Amy had fulfilled all the domestic duties of a
wife; his wardrobe was in as good a state as circumstances
allowed. But there was no object in burdening himself with winter
garments, for, if he lived through the summer at all, he would be
able to repurchase such few poor things as were needful; at
present he could only think of how to get together a few coins.
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