At
seven he was dressed; two hours and a half had to be killed
before he could start on his walk westward. He would have
wandered about the streets, but it rained.
He had made himself as decent as possible in appearance, but he
must necessarily seem an odd Sunday visitor at a house such as
Mrs Yule's. His soft felt hat, never brushed for months, was a
greyish green, and stained round the band with perspiration. His
necktie was discoloured and worn. Coat and waistcoat might pass
muster, but of the trousers the less said the better. One of his
boots was patched, and both were all but heelless.
Very well; let her see him thus. Let her understand what it meant
to live on twelve and sixpence a week.
Though it was cold and wet he could not put on his overcoat.
Three years ago it had been a fairly good ulster; at present, the
edges of the sleeves were frayed, two buttons were missing, and
the original hue of the cloth was indeterminable.
At half-past nine he set out and struggled with his shabby
umbrella against wind and rain. Down Pentonville Hill, up Euston
Road, all along Marylebone Road, then north-westwards towards the
point of his destination.
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