So he made a heap of such things as might be sold.
The furniture? If it must go, the price could scarcely be more
than ten or twelve pounds; well, perhaps fifteen. To be sure, in
this way his summer's living would be abundantly provided for.
He thought of Biffen enviously. Biffen, if need be, could support
life on three or four shillings a week, happy in the thought that
no mortal had a claim upon him. If he starved to death--well,
many another lonely man has come to that end. If he preferred to
kill himself, who would be distressed? Spoilt child of fortune!
The bells of St Marylebone began to clang for afternoon service.
In the idleness of dull pain his thoughts followed their summons,
and he marvelled that there were people who could imagine it a
duty or find it a solace to go and sit in that twilight church
and listen to the droning of prayers. He thought of the wretched
millions of mankind to whom life is so barren that they must
needs believe in a recompense beyond the grave. For that he
neither looked nor longed. The bitterness of his lot was that
this world might be a sufficing paradise to him if only he could
clutch a poor little share of current coin.
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