t?

But the scheme would not be realised; it sounded too unlikely. Andrew
Peak was merely a loose-minded vagabond, who might talk of this and
that project for making money, but would certainly never quit his dirty
haunts in London. Godwin asked himself angrily why he had submitted to
the fellow's companionship. This absurd delicacy must be corrected
before it became his tyrant. The idea of scrupling to hurt the
sensibilities of Andrew Peak! The man was coarse-hided enough to
undergo kicking, and then take sixpence in compensation,--not a doubt
of it. This detestable tie of kindred must no longer be recognised. He
would speak gravely to his mother about it. If Andrew again presented
himself at the house he should be given plainly to understand that his
visits were something less than welcome,--if necessary, a downright
blunt word must effect their liberation. Godwin felt strong enough for
that, musing here alone. And, student-like, he passed on to debate the
theory of the problem. Andrew was his father's brother, but what is a
mere tie of blood if nature has alienated two persons by a subtler
distinction? By the dead man, Andrew had never been loved or esteemed;
memory supplied proof of this. The widow shrank from him. No obligation
of any kind lay upon them to tolerate the London ruffian.--Enough; he
should be got rid of!

Alternating his causes of misery, which--he could not quite
forget--might blend for the sudden transformation of his life, Godwin
let the tea grow cold upon the table, until it was time, if he still
meant to visit the theatre, for setting forth. He had no mind to go,
but as little to sit here and indulge harassing reflection. With an
effort, he made ready and left the house.

The cost of his seat at the theatre was two shillings. So nicely had he
adjusted the expenses of these last days that, after paying the
landlady's bill to-morrow morning, there would remain to him but a few
pence more than the money needed for his journey home. Walking into the
town, he debated with himself whether it were not better to save this
florin. But as he approached the pit door, the spirit of pleasure
revived in him; he had seen but one of Shakespeare's plays, and he
believed (naturally at his age) that to see a drama acted was necessary
for its full appreciation. Sidling with affected indifference, he added
himself to the crowd.

To stand thus, expectant of the opening doors, troubled him with a
sense of shame. To