He can walk; beg the rest of the way, if need be.
What will he do now?
Wander over the town, and gaze vacantly at one little object and another about the house fronts.

One thing he will not look at; and that is the bright summer sea, all golden in the sun rays, flecked with gay white sails.

From all which is bright and calm, and cheerful, his soul shrinks as from an impertinence; he longs for the lurid gas-light of London, and the roar of the Strand, and the everlasting stream of faces among whom he may wander free, sure that no one will recognise him, the disgraced, the desperate.
The weary hours roll on.

Too tired to stand longer, he sits down on the shafts of a cart, and tries not to think.

It is not difficult.