rlet with her, half to hide her shamed head and
wet hair in it, and half, as it seemed, to embrace it, rather than have
nothing to take to her repentant breast.

'Go away from me, go away from me! When my temper comes upon me, I
am mad. I know I might keep it off if I only tried hard enough, and
sometimes I do try hard enough, and at other times I don't and won't.
What have I said! I knew when I said it, it was all lies. They think I
am being taken care of somewhere, and have all I want.

They are nothing but good to me. I love them dearly; no people could
ever be kinder to a thankless creature than they always are to me. Do,
do go away, for I am afraid of you. I am afraid of myself when I feel my
temper coming, and I am as much afraid of you. Go away from me, and let
me pray and cry myself better!' The day passed on; and again the wide
stare stared itself out; and the hot night was on Marseilles; and
through it the caravan of the morning, all dispersed, went their
appointed ways. And thus ever by day and night, under the sun and under
the stars, climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains,
journeying by land and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely,
to meet and to act and react on one another, move all we restless
travellers through the pilgrimage of life.

CHAPTER 3. Home

It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close, and stale. Maddening
church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked
and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous.
Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of
the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, in dire
despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley, and down
almost every turning, some doleful bell was throbbing, jerking, tolling,
as if the Plague were in the city and the dead-carts were going round.
Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish
relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no
rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient
world--all TABOO with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South
Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home
again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe
but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind,
or raise it up. Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the
monot