The city is getting its living--the West End but enjoying its pleasure.

At the West End you may be amused, but in the city you are deeply excited.
Faint, at last, and hungry (it was years since I had felt such healthy hunger), I returned, about two o'clock, to my dark, old, and quiet inn.
I dined on two dishes--a plain joint and vegetables; both seemed excellent: how much better than the small, dainty messes Miss Marchmont's cook used to send up to my kind, dead mistress and me, and to the discussion of which we could not bring half an appetite between us! Delightfully tired, I lay down, on three chairs for an hour (the room did not boast a sofa).

I slept, then I woke and thought for two hours.
My state of mind, and all accompanying circumstances, were just now such as most to favour the adoption of a new, resolute, and daring--perhaps desperate--line of action.

I had nothing to lose.
Unutterable loathing of a desolate existence past, forbade return.

If I failed in what I now designed to undertake, who, save myself, would suffer?
If I died far away from--home, I was going to say, but I had no home--from England, then, who would weep?
I might suffer; I was inured to suffering: death itself had not, I thought, those terrors for me which it has for the softly reared.