He saw, or thought he saw, much in the ease of the Abderite to remind him of his own; and to imitate him he traveled, professed a chuckling indifference to both the good and the ill in life, and, heedful to laugh at whatever turned up, humored himself with the notion that he was a philosopher.
Democritus was Richard's affectation: being only an affectation Democritus did not carry him to the extreme of putting out his own eyes as a help to thought.
Richard, to reach his thirtieth year, had traveled far by many a twisting road.

And for all the good his wanderings overtook, he would have come as well off standing still.

But a change was risping at the door.

In Dorothy Richard had found one to love.

Now in his sudden role of working journalist, he had found work to do.