Wentworth had forgotten he had asked him.

Very well, he must remember to order a room to be got ready.

That was all.

A subscription earnestly solicited by the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman for a parish library.

Why could he not be left in peace?
Oh! what was the use of anything--of life, health, money, intellect, if existence was always to be like this, if every day was to be like this, only like this?
This weary, dry-as-dust grind, this making a handful of bricks out of a cartload of straw, this distaste and fatigue, and sense of being duped by satisfaction, which was only another form of dissatisfaction, after all.