His philosophy was a sham, a spinning of cobwebs for idle hours when the heart is restful and the brain seeks to be amused.

He had no more strength to bear the torture of an inassuageable desire than any foolish fellow who knew not the name of culture.

He could not look forward to the day of forgetting; he would not allow himself to believe that he ever could forget.
But it was time now to go on to Newport Street.

In Paradise Street, just before the railway arch, he glanced at the Bowers' shop, and dreaded lest Bower should meet him.

But he saw no one that he knew before reaching Bunce's abode.
The landlady opened the door.