Down he went to the street.

He did not care to walk towards the King's House, which lay on the road to Dublin; he did not choose to meet his boon companions again, but he stood for full ten minutes, with one of Dr.Sturk's military cloaks about him, under the village tree, directing the double-fire of his spectacles down the street, with an incensed steadiness, unrewarded, unrelieved.

Not a glimmer of a link; not a distant rumble of a coach-wheel.

It was a clear, frosty night, and one might hear a long way.
If any of the honest townsfolk had accidentally lighted upon that muffled, glaring image under the dark old elm, I think he would have mistaken it for a ghost, or something worse.

The countenance at that moment was not prepossessing.
Mr.Dangerfield was not given to bluster, and never made a noise; but from his hollow jaws he sighed an icy curse towards Dublin, which had a keener edge than all the roaring blasphemies of Donnybrook together; and, with another shadow upon his white face, he re-entered the house.
'He'll not come to-night, Ma'am,' he said with a cold abruptness.
'Oh, thank Heaven!--that is--I'm so afraid--I mean about the operation.' Dangerfield, with his hands in his pockets, said nothing.