Something of which he had need
could be procured only in very small quantities; but repetition
of his demand in different places supplied him sufficiently. When
he reached his room, he emptied the contents of sundry little
bottles into one larger, and put this in his pocket. Then he
wrote rather a long letter, addressed to his brother at
Liverpool.
It had been a beautiful day, and there wanted still a couple of
hours before the warm, golden sunlight would disappear. Harold
stood and looked round his room. As always, it presented a neat,
orderly aspect, but his eye caught sight of a volume which stood
upside down, and this fault--particularly hateful to a bookish
man--he rectified. He put his blotting-pad square on the table,
closed the lid of the inkstand, arranged his pens. Then he took
his hat and stick, locked the door behind him, and went
downstairs. At the foot he spoke to his landlady, and told her
that he should not return that night. As soon as possible after
leaving the house he posted his letter.
His direction was westward; walking at a steady, purposeful pace,
with cheery countenance and eyes that gave sign of pleasure as
often as they turned to the sun-smitten clouds, he struck across
Kensington Gardens, and then on towards Fulham, where he crossed
the Thames to Putney.
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