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| 1 | We had a very serious conversation in Buckingham Street that night,
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| 2 | about the domestic occurrences I have detailed in the last chapter.
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| 3 | My aunt was deeply interested in them, and walked up and down the
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| 4 | room with her arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards.
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| 5 | Whenever she was particularly discomposed, she always performed one
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| 6 | of these pedestrian feats; and the amount of her discomposure might
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| 7 | always be estimated by the duration of her walk. On this occasion
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| 8 | she was so much disturbed in mind as to find it necessary to open
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| 9 | the bedroom door, and make a course for herself, comprising the
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| 10 | full extent of the bedrooms from wall to wall; and while Mr. Dick
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| 11 | and I sat quietly by the fire, she kept passing in and out, along
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| 12 | this measured track, at an unchanging pace, with the regularity of
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| 13 | a clock-pendulum.
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| 14 | When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick's going out
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| 15 | to bed, I sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. By
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| 16 | that time she was tired of walking, and sat by the fire with her
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| 17 | dress tucked up as usual. But instead of sitting in her usual
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| 18 | manner, holding her glass upon her knee, she suffered it to stand
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| 19 | neglected on the chimney-piece; and, resting her left elbow on her
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| 20 | right arm, and her chin on her left hand, looked thoughtfully at
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| 21 | me. As often as I raised my eyes from what I was about, I met
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| 22 | hers. 'I am in the lovingest of tempers, my dear,' she would
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| 23 | assure me with a nod, 'but I am fidgeted and sorry!'
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| 24 | I had been too busy to observe, until after she was gone to bed,
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| 25 | that she had left her night-mixture, as she always called it,
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| 26 | untasted on the chimney-piece. She came to her door, with even
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| 27 | more than her usual affection of manner, when I knocked to acquaint
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| 28 | her with this discovery; but only said, 'I have not the heart to
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| 29 | take it, Trot, tonight,' and shook her head, and went in again.
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| 30 | She read my letter to the two old ladies, in the morning, and
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| 31 | approved of it. I posted it, and had nothing to do then, but wait,
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| 32 | as patiently as I could, for the reply. I was still in this state
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| 33 | of expectation, and had been, for nearly a week; when I left the
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| 34 | Doctor's one snowy night, to walk home.
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| 35 | It had been a bitter day, and a cutting north-east wind had blown
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| 36 | for some time. The wind had gone down with the light, and so the
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| 37 | snow had come on. It was a heavy, settled fall, I recollect, in
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| 38 | great flakes; and it lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of
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| 39 | people were as hushed, as if the streets had been strewn that depth
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| 40 | with feathers.
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| 41 | My shortest way home, - and I naturally took the shortest way on
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| 42 | such a night - was through St. Martin's Lane. Now, the church
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| 43 | which gives its name to the lane, stood in a less free situation at
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| 44 | that time; there being no open space before it, and the lane
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| 45 | winding down to the Strand. As I passed the steps of the portico,
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| 46 | I encountered, at the corner, a woman's face. It looked in mine,
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| 47 | passed across the narrow lane, and disappeared. I knew it. I had
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| 48 | seen it somewhere. But I could not remember where. I had some
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| 49 | association with it, that struck upon my heart directly; but I was
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| 50 | thinking of anything else when it came upon me, and was confused.
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| 51 | On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of a man,
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| 52 | who had put down some burden on the smooth snow, to adjust it; my
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| 53 | seeing the face, and my seeing him, were simultaneous. I don't
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| 54 | think I had stopped in my surprise; but, in any case, as I went on,
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| 55 | he rose, turned, and came down towards me. I stood face to face
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| 56 | with Mr. Peggotty!
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| 57 | Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emily had
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| 58 | given the money that night in the kitchen. Martha Endell - side by
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| 59 | side with whom, he would not have seen his dear niece, Ham had told
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| 60 | me, for all the treasures wrecked in the sea.
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| 61 | We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could speak a
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| 62 | word.
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| 63 | 'Mas'r Davy!' he said, gripping me tight, 'it do my art good to see
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| 64 | you, sir. Well met, well met!'
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| 65 | 'Well met, my dear old friend!' said I.
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| 66 | 'I had my thowts o' coming to make inquiration for you, sir,
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| 67 | tonight,' he said, 'but knowing as your aunt was living along wi'
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| 68 | you - fur I've been down yonder - Yarmouth way - I was afeerd it
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| 69 | was too late. I should have come early in the morning, sir, afore
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| 70 | going away.'
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| 71 | 'Again?' said I.
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| 72 | 'Yes, sir,' he replied, patiently shaking his head, 'I'm away
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| 73 | tomorrow.'
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| 74 | 'Where were you going now?' I asked.
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| 75 | 'Well!' he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair, 'I was
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| 76 | a-going to turn in somewheers.'
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| 77 | In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the
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| 78 | Golden Cross, the inn so memorable to me in connexion with his
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| 79 | misfortune, nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the
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| 80 | gateway, put my arm through his, and we went across. Two or three
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| 81 | public-rooms opened out of the stable-yard; and looking into one of
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| 82 | them, and finding it empty, and a good fire burning, I took him in
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| 83 | there.
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| 84 | When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his hair was
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| 85 | long and ragged, but that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He
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| 86 | was greyer, the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he
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| 87 | had every appearance of having toiled and wandered through all
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| 88 | varieties of weather; but he looked very strong, and like a man
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| 89 | upheld by steadfastness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out.
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| 90 | He shook the snow from his hat and clothes, and brushed it away
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| 91 | from his face, while I was inwardly making these remarks. As he
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| 92 | sat down opposite to me at a table, with his back to the door by
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| 93 | which we had entered, he put out his rough hand again, and grasped
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| 94 | mine warmly.
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| 95 | 'I'll tell you, Mas'r Davy,' he said, - 'wheer all I've been, and
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| 96 | what-all we've heerd. I've been fur, and we've heerd little; but
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| 97 | I'll tell you!'
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| 98 | I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothing
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| 99 | stronger than ale; and while it was being brought, and being warmed
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| 100 | at the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine, massive gravity in
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| 101 | his face, I did not venture to disturb.
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| 102 | 'When she was a child,' he said, lifting up his head soon after we
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| 103 | were left alone, 'she used to talk to me a deal about the sea, and
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| 104 | about them coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay
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| 105 | a-shining and a-shining in the sun. I thowt, odd times, as her
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| 106 | father being drownded made her think on it so much. I doen't know,
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| 107 | you see, but maybe she believed - or hoped - he had drifted out to
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| 108 | them parts, where the flowers is always a-blowing, and the country
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| 109 | bright.'
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| 110 | 'It is likely to have been a childish fancy,' I replied.
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| 111 | 'When she was - lost,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'I know'd in my mind, as
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| 112 | he would take her to them countries. I know'd in my mind, as he'd
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| 113 | have told her wonders of 'em, and how she was to be a lady theer,
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| 114 | and how he got her to listen to him fust, along o' sech like. When
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| 115 | we see his mother, I know'd quite well as I was right. I went
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| 116 | across-channel to France, and landed theer, as if I'd fell down
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| 117 | from the sky.'
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| 118 | I saw the door move, and the snow drift in. I saw it move a little
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| 119 | more, and a hand softly interpose to keep it open.
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| 120 | 'I found out an English gen'leman as was in authority,' said Mr.
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| 121 | Peggotty, 'and told him I was a-going to seek my niece. He got me
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| 122 | them papers as I wanted fur to carry me through - I doen't rightly
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| 123 | know how they're called - and he would have give me money, but that
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| 124 | I was thankful to have no need on. I thank him kind, for all he
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| 125 | done, I'm sure! "I've wrote afore you," he says to me, "and I
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| 126 | shall speak to many as will come that way, and many will know you,
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| 127 | fur distant from here, when you're a-travelling alone." I told him,
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| 128 | best as I was able, what my gratitoode was, and went away through
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| 129 | France.'
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| 130 | 'Alone, and on foot?' said I.
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| 131 | 'Mostly a-foot,' he rejoined; 'sometimes in carts along with people
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| 132 | going to market; sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day
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| 133 | a-foot, and often with some poor soldier or another, travelling to
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| 134 | see his friends. I couldn't talk to him,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'nor
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| 135 | he to me; but we was company for one another, too, along the dusty
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| 136 | roads.'
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| 137 | I should have known that by his friendly tone.
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| 138 | 'When I come to any town,' he pursued, 'I found the inn, and waited
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| 139 | about the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as
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| 140 | know'd English. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my
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| 141 | niece, and they told me what manner of gentlefolks was in the
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| 142 | house, and I waited to see any as seemed like her, going in or out.
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| 143 | When it warn't Em'ly, I went on agen. By little and little, when
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| 144 | I come to a new village or that, among the poor people, I found
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| 145 | they know'd about me. They would set me down at their cottage
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| 146 | doors, and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show me where
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| 147 | to sleep; and many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has had a daughter of
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| 148 | about Em'ly's age, I've found a-waiting fur me, at Our Saviour's
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| 149 | Cross outside the village, fur to do me sim'lar kindnesses. Some
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| 150 | has had daughters as was dead. And God only knows how good them
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| 151 | mothers was to me!'
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| 152 | It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening face
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| 153 | distinctly. My dread was lest he should turn his head, and see her
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| 154 | too.
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| 155 | 'They would often put their children - particular their little
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| 156 | girls,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'upon my knee; and many a time you might
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| 157 | have seen me sitting at their doors, when night was coming in,
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| 158 | a'most as if they'd been my Darling's children. Oh, my Darling!'
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| 159 | Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling
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| 160 | hand upon the hand he put before his face. 'Thankee, sir,' he
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| 161 | said, 'doen't take no notice.'
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| 162 | In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his
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| 163 | breast, and went on with his story.
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| 164 | 'They often walked with me,' he said, 'in the morning, maybe a mile
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| 165 | or two upon my road; and when we parted, and I said, "I'm very
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| 166 | thankful to you! God bless you!" they always seemed to understand,
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| 167 | and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. It warn't hard,
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| 168 | you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to work his way over
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| 169 | to Italy. When I got theer, I wandered on as I had done afore.
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| 170 | The people was just as good to me, and I should have gone from town
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| 171 | to town, maybe the country through, but that I got news of her
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| 172 | being seen among them Swiss mountains yonder. One as know'd his
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| 173 | servant see 'em there, all three, and told me how they travelled,
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| 174 | and where they was. I made fur them mountains, Mas'r Davy, day and
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| 175 | night. Ever so fur as I went, ever so fur the mountains seemed to
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| 176 | shift away from me. But I come up with 'em, and I crossed 'em.
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| 177 | When I got nigh the place as I had been told of, I began to think
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| 178 | within my own self, "What shall I do when I see her?"'
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| 179 | The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still
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| 180 | drooped at the door, and the hands begged me - prayed me - not to
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| 181 | cast it forth.
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| 182 | 'I never doubted her,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'No! Not a bit! On'y
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| 183 | let her see my face - on'y let her beer my voice - on'y let my
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| 184 | stanning still afore her bring to her thoughts the home she had
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| 185 | fled away from, and the child she had been - and if she had growed
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| 186 | to be a royal lady, she'd have fell down at my feet! I know'd it
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| 187 | well! Many a time in my sleep had I heerd her cry out, "Uncle!"
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| 188 | and seen her fall like death afore me. Many a time in my sleep had
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| 189 | I raised her up, and whispered to her, "Em'ly, my dear, I am come
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| 190 | fur to bring forgiveness, and to take you home!"'
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| 191 | He stopped and shook his head, and went on with a sigh.
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| 192 | 'He was nowt to me now. Em'ly was all. I bought a country dress
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| 193 | to put upon her; and I know'd that, once found, she would walk
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| 194 | beside me over them stony roads, go where I would, and never,
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| 195 | never, leave me more. To put that dress upon her, and to cast off
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| 196 | what she wore - to take her on my arm again, and wander towards
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| 197 | home - to stop sometimes upon the road, and heal her bruised feet
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| 198 | and her worse-bruised heart - was all that I thowt of now. I
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| 199 | doen't believe I should have done so much as look at him. But,
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| 200 | Mas'r Davy, it warn't to be - not yet! I was too late, and they
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| 201 | was gone. Wheer, I couldn't learn. Some said beer, some said
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| 202 | theer. I travelled beer, and I travelled theer, but I found no
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| 203 | Em'ly, and I travelled home.'
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| 204 | 'How long ago?' I asked.
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| 205 | 'A matter o' fower days,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I sighted the old
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| 206 | boat arter dark, and the light a-shining in the winder. When I
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| 207 | come nigh and looked in through the glass, I see the faithful
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| 208 | creetur Missis Gummidge sittin' by the fire, as we had fixed upon,
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| 209 | alone. I called out, "Doen't be afeerd! It's Dan'l!" and I went
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| 210 | in. I never could have thowt the old boat would have been so
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| 211 | strange!'
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| 212 | From some pocket in his breast, he took out, with a very careful
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| 213 | hand a small paper bundle containing two or three letters or little
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| 214 | packets, which he laid upon the table.
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| 215 | 'This fust one come,' he said, selecting it from the rest, 'afore
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| 216 | I had been gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of
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| 217 | paper, directed to me, and put underneath the door in the night.
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| 218 | She tried to hide her writing, but she couldn't hide it from Me!'
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| 219 | He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in
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| 220 | exactly the same form, and laid it on one side.
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| 221 | 'This come to Missis Gummidge,' he said, opening another, 'two or
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| 222 | three months ago.'After looking at it for some moments, he gave it
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| 223 | to me, and added in a low voice, 'Be so good as read it, sir.'
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| 224 | I read as follows:
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| 225 | 'Oh what will you feel when you see this writing, and know it comes
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| 226 | from my wicked hand! But try, try - not for my sake, but for
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| 227 | uncle's goodness, try to let your heart soften to me, only for a
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| 228 | little little time! Try, pray do, to relent towards a miserable
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| 229 | girl, and write down on a bit of paper whether he is well, and what
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| 230 | he said about me before you left off ever naming me among
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| 231 | yourselves - and whether, of a night, when it is my old time of
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| 232 | coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of one he used
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| 233 | to love so dear. Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about it!
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| 234 | I am kneeling down to you, begging and praying you not to be as
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| 235 | hard with me as I deserve - as I well, well, know I deserve - but
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| 236 | to be so gentle and so good, as to write down something of him, and
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| 237 | to send it to me. You need not call me Little, you need not call
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| 238 | me by the name I have disgraced; but oh, listen to my agony, and
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| 239 | have mercy on me so far as to write me some word of uncle, never,
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| 240 | never to be seen in this world by my eyes again!
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| 241 | 'Dear, if your heart is hard towards me - justly hard, I know -
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| 242 | but, listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most
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| 243 | - him whose wife I was to have been - before you quite decide
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| 244 | against my poor poor prayer! If he should be so compassionate as
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| 245 | to say that you might write something for me to read - I think he
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| 246 | would, oh, I think he would, if you would only ask him, for he
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| 247 | always was so brave and so forgiving - tell him then (but not
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| 248 | else), that when I hear the wind blowing at night, I feel as if it
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| 249 | was passing angrily from seeing him and uncle, and was going up to
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| 250 | God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and oh, if
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| 251 | I was fit, I would be so glad to die!) I would bless him and uncle
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| 252 | with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last
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| 253 | breath!'
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| 254 | Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It was
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| 255 | untouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same
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| 256 | way. Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of
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| 257 | a reply, which, although they betrayed the intervention of several
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| 258 | hands, and made it difficult to arrive at any very probable
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| 259 | conclusion in reference to her place of concealment, made it at
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| 260 | least not unlikely that she had written from that spot where she
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| 261 | was stated to have been seen.
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| 262 | 'What answer was sent?' I inquired of Mr. Peggotty.
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| 263 | 'Missis Gummidge,' he returned, 'not being a good scholar, sir, Ham
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| 264 | kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I
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| 265 | was gone to seek her, and what my parting words was.'
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| 266 | 'Is that another letter in your hand?' said I.
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| 267 | 'It's money, sir,' said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way.
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| 268 | 'Ten pound, you see. And wrote inside, "From a true friend," like
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| 269 | the fust. But the fust was put underneath the door, and this come
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| 270 | by the post, day afore yesterday. I'm a-going to seek her at the
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| 271 | post-mark.'
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| 272 | He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He had
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| 273 | found out, at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country,
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| 274 | and they had drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very
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| 275 | well understand. He laid it between us on the table; and, with his
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| 276 | chin resting on one hand, tracked his course upon it with the
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| 277 | other.
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| 278 | I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.
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| 279 | 'He works,' he said, 'as bold as a man can. His name's as good, in
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| 280 | all that part, as any man's is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone's
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| 281 | hand is ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help
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| 282 | them. He's never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister's
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| 283 | belief is ('twixt ourselves) as it has cut him deep.'
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| 284 | 'Poor fellow, I can believe it!'
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| 285 | 'He ain't no care, Mas'r Davy,' said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn
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| 286 | whisper - 'kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man's wanted
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| 287 | for rough sarvice in rough weather, he's theer. When there's hard
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| 288 | duty to be done with danger in it, he steps for'ard afore all his
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| 289 | mates. And yet he's as gentle as any child. There ain't a child
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| 290 | in Yarmouth that doen't know him.'
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| 291 | He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his
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| 292 | hand; put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in
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| 293 | his breast again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw
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| 294 | the snow drifting in; but nothing else was there.
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| 295 | 'Well!' he said, looking to his bag, 'having seen you tonight,
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| 296 | Mas'r Davy (and that doos me good!), I shall away betimes tomorrow
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| 297 | morning. You have seen what I've got heer'; putting his hand on
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| 298 | where the little packet lay; 'all that troubles me is, to think
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| 299 | that any harm might come to me, afore that money was give back. If
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| 300 | I was to die, and it was lost, or stole, or elseways made away
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| 301 | with, and it was never know'd by him but what I'd took it, I
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| 302 | believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold me! I believe I must come
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| 303 | back!'
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| 304 | He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again,
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| 305 | before going out.
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| 306 | 'I'd go ten thousand mile,' he said, 'I'd go till I dropped dead,
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| 307 | to lay that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em'ly,
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| 308 | I'm content. If I doen't find her, maybe she'll come to hear,
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| 309 | sometime, as her loving uncle only ended his search for her when he
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| 310 | ended his life; and if I know her, even that will turn her home at
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| 311 | last!'
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| 312 | As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure
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| 313 | flit away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and
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| 314 | held him in conversation until it was gone.
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| 315 | He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Road, where he knew he
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| 316 | could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him
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| 317 | over Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore.
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| 318 | Everything seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for
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| 319 | him, as he resumed his solitary journey through the snow.
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| 320 | I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the
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| 321 | face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow
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| 322 | had covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to
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| 323 | be seen; and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I
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| 324 | looked back over my shoulder.
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