His passions were awakened; he had to compensate himself
for years lost in suffering of body and mind. With exultant swagger
he walked about the London streets, often inspecting his appearance
in a glass; for awhile he could throw aside all thought of the
future, relish his freedom, take his licence in the way that most
recommended itself to him.
The hours did not lag, and on the following afternoon he received
the newspaper for which he was waiting. He tore it open, and ran his
eye over the columns, but they contained no extraordinary matter.
Nothing unexpected had befallen; there was an account of the
nomination, and plenty of rancour against the Radicals, but
assuredly, up to the hour of the _Mercury's_ going to press, no
public scandal had exploded in Polterham.
What did it mean? Was Marks delaying for some definite reason? Or
had he misrepresented his motives? Was it a private enmity he had
planned to gratify--now frustrated by the default of his
instrument?
He had given Marks an address in Bristol, that of a shop at which
letters were received. Possibly some communication awaited him
there. He hastened to Paddington and took the first westward train.
On inquiry next morning, he found he had had his journey for
nothing. As he might have anticipated, Marks was too cautious a man
to have recourse to writing.
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