They were hanging against the wall in little oval wooden frames; black profiles, with the lights done in gold; about as poor semblances of humanity as could be conceived; but Philip went up, and after looking for a minute or so at Sylvia's, he took it down, and buttoned his waistcoat over it.
It was the only thing he took away from his home.
He went down the entry on to the quay.

The river was there, and waters, they say, have a luring power, and a weird promise of rest in their perpetual monotony of sound.

But many people were there, if such a temptation presented itself to Philip's mind; the sight of his fellow-townsmen, perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him up another entry--the town is burrowed with such--back into the High Street, which he straightway crossed into a well-known court, out of which rough steps led to the summit of the hill, and on to the fells and moors beyond.
He plunged and panted up this rough ascent.

From the top he could look down on the whole town lying below, severed by the bright shining river into two parts.

To the right lay the sea, shimmering and heaving; there were the cluster of masts rising out of the little port; the irregular roofs of the houses; which of them, thought he, as he carried his eye along the quay-side to the market-place, which of them was his?
and he singled it out in its unfamiliar aspect, and saw the thin blue smoke rising from the kitchen chimney, where even now Phoebe was cooking the household meal that he never more must share.
Up at that thought and away, he knew not nor cared not whither.