Mrs Flintwinch had introduced into the web that his mind was busily

weaving, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the

last thread wanting to the pattern. The airy folly of a boy's love had

found its way even into that house, and he had been as wretched under

its hopelessness as if the house had been a castle of romance. Little

more than a week ago at Marseilles, the face of the pretty girl from

whom he had parted with regret, had had an unusual interest for him, and

a tender hold upon him, because of some resemblance, real or imagined,

to this first face that had soared out of his gloomy life into the

bright glories of fancy.

He leaned upon the sill of the long low window,

and looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys again, began to

dream; for it had been the uniform tendency of this man's life--so much

was wanting in it to think about, so much that might have been better

directed and happier to speculate upon--to make him a dreamer, after

all.




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