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    Chapter 2

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    Chapter 3
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    CHAPTER 2

    Fellow Travellers

    'No more of yesterday's howling over yonder to-day, Sir; is there?'

    'I have heard none.'

    'Then you may be sure there is none. When these people howl, they
    howl to be heard.'

    'Most people do, I suppose.'

    'Ah! but these people are always howling. Never happy otherwise.'

    'Do you mean the Marseilles people?'

    'I mean the French people. They're always at it. As to
    Marseilles, we know what Marseilles is. It sent the most
    insurrectionary tune into the world that was ever composed. It
    couldn't exist without allonging and marshonging to something or
    other--victory or death, or blazes, or something.'

    The speaker, with a whimsical good humour upon him all the time,
    looked over the parapet-wall with the greatest disparagement of
    Marseilles; and taking up a determined position by putting his
    hands in his pockets and rattling his money at it, apostrophised it
    with a short laugh.

    'Allong and marshong, indeed. It would be more creditable to you,
    I think, to let other people allong and marshong about their lawful
    business, instead of shutting 'em up in quarantine!'

    'Tiresome enough,' said the other. 'But we shall be out to-day.'

    'Out to-day!' repeated the first. 'It's almost an aggravation of
    the enormity, that we shall be out to-day. Out! What have we ever
    been in for?'

    'For no very strong reason, I must say. But as we come from the
    East, and as the East is the country of the plague--'

    'The plague!' repeated the other. 'That's my grievance. I have
    had the plague continually, ever since I have been here. I am like
    a sane man shut up in a madhouse; I can't stand the suspicion of
    the thing. I came here as well as ever I was in my life; but to
    suspect me of the plague is to give me the plague. And I have had
    it--and I have got it.'

    'You bear it very well, Mr Meagles,' said the second speaker,
    smiling.

    'No. If you knew the real state of the case, that's the last
    observation you would think of making. I have been waking up night
    after night, and saying, NOW I have got it, NOW it has developed
    itself, NOW I am in for it, NOW these fellows are making out their
    case for their precautions. Why, I'd as soon have a spit put
    through me, and be stuck upon a card in a collection of beetles, as
    lead the life I have been leading here.'

    'Well, Mr Meagles, say no more about it now it's over,' urged a
    cheerful feminine voice.

    'Over!' repeated Mr Meagles, who appeared (though without any ill-
    nature) to be in that peculiar state of mind in which the last word
    spoken by anybody else is a new injury. 'Over! and why should I
    say no more about it because it's over?'

    It was Mrs Meagles who had spoken to Mr Meagles; and Mrs Meagles
    was, like Mr Meagles, comely and healthy, with a pleasant English
    face which had been looking at homely things for five-and-fifty
    years or more, and shone with a bright reflection of them.

    'There! Never mind, Father, never mind!' said Mrs Meagles. 'For
    goodness sake content yourself with Pet.'

    'With Pet?' repeated Mr Meagles in his injured vein. Pet, however,
    being close behind him, touched him on the shoulder, and Mr Meagles
    immediately forgave Marseilles from the bottom of his heart.

    Pet was about twenty. A fair girl with rich brown hair hanging
    free in natural ringlets. A lovely girl, with a frank face, and
    wonderful eyes; so large, so soft, so bright, set to such
    perfection in her kind good head. She was round and fresh and
    dimpled and spoilt, and there was in Pet an air of timidity and
    dependence which was the best weakness in the world, and gave her
    the only crowning charm a girl so pretty and pleasant could have
    been without.

    'Now, I ask you,' said Mr Meagles in the blandest confidence,
    falling back a step himself, and handing his daughter a step
    forward to illustrate his question: 'I ask you simply, as between
    man and man, you know, DID you ever hear of such damned nonsense as
    putting Pet in quarantine?'

    'It has had the result of making even quarantine enjoyable.'
    'Come!' said Mr Meagles, 'that's something to be sure. I am
    obliged to you for that remark. Now, Pet, my darling, you had
    better go along with Mother and get ready for the boat. The
    officer of health, and a variety of humbugs in cocked hats, are
    coming off to let us out of this at last: and all we jail-birds are
    to breakfast together in something approaching to a Christian style
    again, before we take wing for our different destinations.
    Tattycoram, stick you close to your young mistress.'

    He spoke to a handsome girl with lustrous dark hair and eyes, and
    very neatly dressed, who replied with a half curtsey as she passed
    off in the train of Mrs Meagles and Pet. They crossed the bare
    scorched terrace all three together, and disappeared through a
    staring white archway. Mr Meagles's companion, a grave dark man of
    forty, still stood looking towards this archway after they were
    gone; until Mr Meagles tapped him on the arm.

    'I beg your pardon,' said he, starting.

    'Not at all,' said Mr Meagles.

    They took one silent turn backward and forward in the shade of the
    wall, getting, at the height on which the quarantine barracks are
    placed, what cool refreshment of sea breeze there was at seven in
    the morning. Mr Meagles's companion resumed the conversation.

    'May I ask you,' he said, 'what is the name of--'

    'Tattycoram?' Mr Meagles struck in. 'I have not the least idea.'

    'I thought,' said the other, 'that--'

    'Tattycoram?' suggested Mr Meagles again.

    'Thank you--that Tattycoram was a name; and I have several times
    wondered at the oddity of it.'

    'Why, the fact is,' said Mr Meagles, 'Mrs Meagles and myself are,
    you see, practical people.'

    'That you have frequently mentioned in the course of the agreeable
    and interesting conversations we have had together, walking up and
    down on these stones,' said the other, with a half smile breaking
    through the gravity of his dark face.

    'Practical people. So one day, five or six years ago now, when we
    took Pet to church at the Foundling--you have heard of the
    Foundling Hospital in London? Similar to the Institution for the
    Found Children in Paris?'

    'I have seen it.'

    'Well! One day when we took Pet to church there to hear the
    music--because, as practical people, it is the business of our
    lives to show her everything that we think can please her--Mother
    (my usual name for Mrs Meagles) began to cry so, that it was
    necessary to take her out. "What's the matter, Mother?" said I,
    when we had brought her a little round: "you are frightening Pet,
    my dear." "Yes, I know that, Father," says Mother, "but I think
    it's through my loving her so much, that it ever came into my
    head." "That ever what came into your head, Mother?" "O dear,
    dear!" cried Mother, breaking out again, "when I saw all those
    children ranged tier above tier, and appealing from the father none
    of them has ever known on earth, to the great Father of us all in
    Heaven, I thought, does any wretched mother ever come here, and
    look among those young faces, wondering which is the poor child she
    brought into this forlorn world, never through all its life to know
    her love, her kiss, her face, her voice, even her name!" Now that
    was practical in Mother, and I told her so. I said, "Mother,
    that's what I call practical in you, my dear."'

    The other, not unmoved, assented.

    'So I said next day: Now, Mother, I have a proposition to make that
    I think you'll approve of. Let us take one of those same little
    children to be a little maid to Pet. We are practical people. So
    if we should find her temper a little defective, or any of her ways
    a little wide of ours, we shall know what we have to take into
    account. We shall know what an immense deduction must be made from
    all the influences and experiences that have formed us--no parents,
    no child-brother or sister, no individuality of home, no Glass
    Slipper, or Fairy Godmother. And that's the way we came by
    Tattycoram.'

    'And the name itself--'

    'By George!' said Mr Meagles, 'I was forgetting the name itself.
    Why, she was called in the Institution, Harriet Beadle--an
    arbitrary name, of course. Now, Harriet we changed into Hattey,
    and then into Tatty, because, as practical people, we thought even
    a playful name might be a new thing to her, and might have a
    softening and affectionate kind of effect, don't you see? As to
    Beadle, that I needn't say was wholly out of the question. If
    there is anything that is not to be tolerated on any terms,
    anything that is a type of Jack-in-office insolence and absurdity,
    anything that represents in coats, waistcoats, and big sticks our
    English holding on by nonsense after every one has found it out, it
    is a beadle. You haven't seen a beadle lately?'

    'As an Englishman who has been more than twenty years in China,
    no.'

    'Then,' said Mr Meagles, laying his forefinger on his companion's
    breast with great animation, 'don't you see a beadle, now, if you
    can help it. Whenever I see a beadle in full fig, coming down a
    street on a Sunday at the head of a charity school, I am obliged to
    turn and run away, or I should hit him. The name of Beadle being
    out of the question, and the originator of the Institution for
    these poor foundlings having been a blessed creature of the name of
    Coram, we gave that name to Pet's little maid. At one time she was
    Tatty, and at one time she was Coram, until we got into a way of
    mixing the two names together, and now she is always Tattycoram.'

    'Your daughter,' said the other, when they had taken another silent
    turn to and fro, and, after standing for a moment at the wall
    glancing down at the sea, had resumed their walk, 'is your only
    child, I know, Mr Meagles. May I ask you--in no impertinent
    curiosity, but because I have had so much pleasure in your society,
    may never in this labyrinth of a world exchange a quiet word with
    you again, and wish to preserve an accurate remembrance of you and
    yours--may I ask you, if I have not gathered from your good wife
    that you have had other children?'

    'No. No,' said Mr Meagles. 'Not exactly other children. One
    other child.'

    'I am afraid I have inadvertently touched upon a tender theme.'

    'Never mind,' said Mr Meagles. 'If I am grave about it, I am not
    at all sorrowful. It quiets me for a moment, but does not make me
    unhappy. Pet had a twin sister who died when we could just see her
    eyes--exactly like Pet's--above the table, as she stood on tiptoe
    holding by it.'

    'Ah! indeed, indeed!'

    'Yes, and being practical people, a result has gradually sprung up
    in the minds of Mrs Meagles and myself which perhaps you may--or
    perhaps you may not--understand. Pet and her baby sister were so
    exactly alike, and so completely one, that in our thoughts we have
    never been able to separate them since. It would be of no use to
    tell us that our dead child was a mere infant. We have changed
    that child according to the changes in the child spared to us and
    always with us. As Pet has grown, that child has grown; as Pet has
    become more sensible and womanly, her sister has become more
    sensible and womanly by just the same degrees. It would be as hard
    to convince me that if I was to pass into the other world to-
    morrow, I should not, through the mercy of God, be received there
    by a daughter, just like Pet, as to persuade me that Pet herself is
    not a reality at my side.'
    'I understand you,' said the other, gently.

    'As to her,' pursued her father, 'the sudden loss of her little
    picture and playfellow, and her early association with that mystery
    in which we all have our equal share, but which is not often so
    forcibly presented to a child, has necessarily had some influence
    on her character. Then, her mother and I were not young when we
    married, and Pet has always had a sort of grown-up life with us,
    though we have tried to adapt ourselves to her. We have been
    advised more than once when she has been a little ailing, to change
    climate and air for her as often as we could--especially at about
    this time of her life--and to keep her amused. So, as I have no
    need to stick at a bank-desk now (though I have been poor enough in
    my time I assure you, or I should have married Mrs Meagles long
    before), we go trotting about the world. This is how you found us
    staring at the Nile, and the Pyramids, and the Sphinxes, and the
    Desert, and all the rest of it; and this is how Tattycoram will be
    a greater traveller in course of time than Captain Cook.'

    'I thank you,' said the other, 'very heartily for your confidence.'

    'Don't mention it,' returned Mr Meagles, 'I am sure you are quite
    welcome. And now, Mr Clennam, perhaps I may ask you whether you
    have yet come to a decision where to go next?'

    'Indeed, no. I am such a waif and stray everywhere, that I am
    liable to be drifted where any current may set.'

    'It's extraordinary to me--if you'll excuse my freedom in saying
    so--that you don't go straight to London,' said Mr Meagles, in the
    tone of a confidential adviser.

    'Perhaps I shall.'

    'Ay! But I mean with a will.'

    'I have no will. That is to say,'--he coloured a little,--'next to
    none that I can put in action now. Trained by main force; broken,
    not bent; heavily ironed with an object on which I was never
    consulted and which was never mine; shipped away to the other end
    of the world before I was of age, and exiled there until my
    father's death there, a year ago; always grinding in a mill I
    always hated; what is to be expected from me in middle life? Will,
    purpose, hope? All those lights were extinguished before I could
    sound the words.'

    'Light 'em up again!' said Mr Meagles.

    'Ah! Easily said. I am the son, Mr Meagles, of a hard father and
    mother. I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and
    priced everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured,
    and priced, had no existence. Strict people as the phrase is,
    professors of a stern religion, their very religion was a gloomy
    sacrifice of tastes and sympathies that were never their own,
    offered up as a part of a bargain for the security of their
    possessions. Austere faces, inexorable discipline, penance in this
    world and terror in the next--nothing graceful or gentle anywhere,
    and the void in my cowed heart everywhere--this was my childhood,
    if I may so misuse the word as to apply it to such a beginning of
    life.'

    'Really though?' said Mr Meagles, made very uncomfortable by the
    picture offered to his imagination. 'That was a tough
    commencement. But come! You must now study, and profit by, all
    that lies beyond it, like a practical man.'

    'If the people who are usually called practical, were practical in
    your direction--'

    'Why, so they are!' said Mr Meagles.

    'Are they indeed?'

    'Well, I suppose so,' returned Mr Meagles, thinking about it. 'Eh?

    One can but be practical, and Mrs Meagles and myself are nothing
    else.'

    'My unknown course is easier and more helpful than I had expected
    to find it, then,' said Clennam, shaking his head with his grave
    smile. 'Enough of me. Here is the boat.'

    The boat was filled with the cocked hats to which Mr Meagles
    entertained a national objection; and the wearers of those cocked
    hats landed and came up the steps, and all the impounded travellers
    congregated together. There was then a mighty production of papers
    on the part of the cocked hats, and a calling over of names, and
    great work of signing, sealing, stamping, inking, and sanding, with
    exceedingly blurred, gritty, and undecipherable results. Finally,
    everything was done according to rule, and the travellers were at
    liberty to depart whithersoever they would.

    They made little account of stare and glare, in the new pleasure of
    recovering their freedom, but flitted across the harbour in gay
    boats, and reassembled at a great hotel, whence the sun was
    excluded by closed lattices, and where bare paved floors, lofty
    ceilings, and resounding corridors tempered the intense heat.
    There, a great table in a great room was soon profusely covered
    with a superb repast; and the quarantine quarters became bare
    indeed, remembered among dainty dishes, southern fruits, cooled
    wines, flowers from Genoa, snow from the mountain tops, and all the
    colours of the rainbow flashing in the mirrors.

    'But I bear those monotonous walls no ill-will now,' said Mr
    Meagles. 'One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it's
    left behind; I dare say a prisoner begins to relent towards his
    prison, after he is let out.'

    They were about thirty in company, and all talking; but necessarily
    in groups. Father and Mother Meagles sat with their daughter
    between them, the last three on one side of the table: on the
    opposite side sat Mr Clennam; a tall French gentleman with raven
    hair and beard, of a swart and terrible, not to say genteelly
    diabolical aspect, but who had shown himself the mildest of men;
    and a handsome young Englishwoman, travelling quite alone, who had
    a proud observant face, and had either withdrawn herself from the
    rest or been avoided by the rest--nobody, herself excepted perhaps,
    could have quite decided which. The rest of the party were of the
    usual materials: travellers on business, and travellers for
    pleasure; officers from India on leave; merchants in the Greek and
    Turkey trades; a clerical English husband in a meek strait-
    waistcoat, on a wedding trip with his young wife; a majestic
    English mama and papa, of the patrician order, with a family of
    three growing-up daughters, who were keeping a journal for the
    confusion of their fellow-creatures; and a deaf old English mother,
    tough in travel, with a very decidedly grown-up daughter indeed,
    which daughter went sketching about the universe in the expectation
    of ultimately toning herself off into the married state.

    The reserved Englishwoman took up Mr Meagles in his last remark.
    'Do you mean that a prisoner forgives his prison?' said she, slowly
    and with emphasis.

    'That was my speculation, Miss Wade. I don't pretend to know
    positively how a prisoner might feel. I never was one before.'

    'Mademoiselle doubts,' said the French gentleman in his own
    language, 'it's being so easy to forgive?'

    'I do.'

    Pet had to translate this passage to Mr Meagles, who never by any
    accident acquired any knowledge whatever of the language of any
    country into which he travelled. 'Oh!' said he. 'Dear me! But
    that's a pity, isn't it?'

    'That I am not credulous?' said Miss Wade.

    'Not exactly that. Put it another way. That you can't believe it
    easy to forgive.'

    'My experience,' she quietly returned, 'has been correcting my
    belief in many respects, for some years. It is our natural
    progress, I have heard.'

    'Well, well! But it's not natural to bear malice, I hope?' said Mr
    Meagles, cheerily.

    'If I had been shut up in any place to pine and suffer, I should
    always hate that place and wish to burn it down, or raze it to the
    ground. I know no more.'
    'Strong, sir?' said Mr Meagles to the Frenchman; it being another
    of his habits to address individuals of all nations in idiomatic
    English, with a perfect conviction that they were bound to
    understand it somehow. 'Rather forcible in our fair friend, you'll
    agree with me, I think?'

    The French gentleman courteously replied, 'Plait-il?' To which Mr
    Meagles returned with much satisfaction, 'You are right. My
    opinion.'

    The breakfast beginning by-and-by to languish, Mr Meagles made the
    company a speech. It was short enough and sensible enough,
    considering that it was a speech at all, and hearty. It merely
    went to the effect that as they had all been thrown together by
    chance, and had all preserved a good understanding together, and
    were now about to disperse, and were not likely ever to find
    themselves all together again, what could they do better than bid
    farewell to one another, and give one another good-speed in a
    simultaneous glass of cool champagne all round the table? It was
    done, and with a general shaking of hands the assembly broke up for
    ever.

    The solitary young lady all this time had said no more. She rose
    with the rest, and silently withdrew to a remote corner of the
    great room, where she sat herself on a couch in a window, seeming
    to watch the reflection of the water as it made a silver quivering
    on the bars of the lattice. She sat, turned away from the whole
    length of the apartment, as if she were lonely of her own haughty
    choice. And yet it would have been as difficult as ever to say,
    positively, whether she avoided the rest, or was avoided.

    The shadow in which she sat, falling like a gloomy veil across her
    forehead, accorded very well with the character of her beauty. One
    could hardly see the face, so still and scornful, set off by the
    arched dark eyebrows, and the folds of dark hair, without wondering
    what its expression would be if a change came over it. That it
    could soften or relent, appeared next to impossible. That it could
    deepen into anger or any extreme of defiance, and that it must
    change in that direction when it changed at all, would have been
    its peculiar impression upon most observers. It was dressed and
    trimmed into no ceremony of expression. Although not an open face,
    there was no pretence in it. 'I am self-contained and self-
    reliant; your opinion is nothing to me; I have no interest in you,
    care nothing for you, and see and hear you with indifference'--this
    it said plainly. It said so in the proud eyes, in the lifted
    nostril, in the handsome but compressed and even cruel mouth.
    Cover either two of those channels of expression, and the third
    would have said so still. Mask them all, and the mere turn of the
    head would have shown an unsubduable nature.

    Pet had moved up to her (she had been the subject of remark among
    her family and Mr Clennam, who were now the only other occupants of
    the room), and was standing at her side.

    'Are you'--she turned her eyes, and Pet faltered--'expecting any
    one to meet you here, Miss Wade?'

    'I? No.'

    'Father is sending to the Poste Restante. Shall he have the
    pleasure of directing the messenger to ask if there are any letters
    for you?'

    'I thank him, but I know there can be none.'

    'We are afraid,' said Pet, sitting down beside her, shyly and half
    tenderly, 'that you will feel quite deserted when we are all gone.'

    'Indeed!'

    'Not,' said Pet, apologetically and embarrassed by her eyes, 'not,
    of course, that we are any company to you, or that we have been
    able to be so, or that we thought you wished it.'

    'I have not intended to make it understood that I did wish it.'

    'No. Of course. But--in short,' said Pet, timidly touching her
    hand as it lay impassive on the sofa between them, 'will you not
    allow Father to tender you any slight assistance or service? He
    will be very glad.'

    'Very glad,' said Mr Meagles, coming forward with his wife and
    Clennam. 'Anything short of speaking the language, I shall be
    delighted to undertake, I am sure.'

    'I am obliged to you,' she returned, 'but my arrangements are made,
    and I prefer to go my own way in my own manner.'

    'Do you?' said Mr Meagles to himself, as he surveyed her with a
    puzzled look. 'Well! There's character in that, too.'

    'I am not much used to the society of young ladies, and I am afraid
    I may not show my appreciation of it as others might. A pleasant
    journey to you. Good-bye!'

    She would not have put out her hand, it seemed, but that Mr Meagles
    put out his so straight before her that she could not pass it. She
    put hers in it, and it lay there just as it had lain upon the
    couch.

    'Good-bye!' said Mr Meagles. 'This is the last good-bye upon the
    list, for Mother and I have just said it to Mr Clennam here, and he
    only waits to say it to Pet. Good-bye! We may never meet again.'

    'In our course through life we shall meet the people who are coming
    to meet us, from many strange places and by many strange roads,'
    was the composed reply; 'and what it is set to us to do to them,
    and what it is set to them to do to us, will all be done.'
    There was something in the manner of these words that jarred upon
    Pet's ear. It implied that what was to be done was necessarily
    evil, and it caused her to say in a whisper, 'O Father!' and to
    shrink childishly, in her spoilt way, a little closer to him. This
    was not lost on the speaker.

    'Your pretty daughter,' she said, 'starts to think of such things.
    Yet,' looking full upon her, 'you may be sure that there are men
    and women already on their road, who have their business to do with
    YOU, and who will do it. Of a certainty they will do it. They may
    be coming hundreds, thousands, of miles over the sea there; they
    may be close at hand now; they may be coming, for anything you know
    or anything you can do to prevent it, from the vilest sweepings of
    this very town.'

    With the coldest of farewells, and with a certain worn expression
    on her beauty that gave it, though scarcely yet in its prime, a
    wasted look, she left the room.

    Now, there were many stairs and passages that she had to traverse
    in passing from that part of the spacious house to the chamber she
    had secured for her own occupation. When she had almost completed
    the journey, and was passing along the gallery in which her room
    was, she heard an angry sound of muttering and sobbing. A door
    stood open, and within she saw the attendant upon the girl she had
    just left; the maid with the curious name.

    She stood still, to look at this maid. A sullen, passionate girl!
    Her rich black hair was all about her face, her face was flushed
    and hot, and as she sobbed and raged, she plucked at her lips with
    an unsparing hand.

    'Selfish brutes!' said the girl, sobbing and heaving between
    whiles. 'Not caring what becomes of me! Leaving me here hungry
    and thirsty and tired, to starve, for anything they care! Beasts!
    Devils! Wretches!'

    'My poor girl, what is the matter?'

    She looked up suddenly, with reddened eyes, and with her hands
    suspended, in the act of pinching her neck, freshly disfigured with
    great scarlet blots. 'It's nothing to you what's the matter. It
    don't signify to any one.'

    'O yes it does; I am sorry to see you so.'

    'You are not sorry,' said the girl. 'You are glad. You know you
    are glad. I never was like this but twice over in the quarantine
    yonder; and both times you found me. I am afraid of you.'

    'Afraid of me?'

    'Yes. You seem to come like my own anger, my own malice, my own--
    whatever it is--I don't know what it is. But I am ill-used, I am
    ill-used, I am ill-used!' Here the sobs and the tears, and the
    tearing hand, which had all been suspended together since the first
    surprise, went on together anew.

    The visitor stood looking at her with a strange attentive smile.
    It was wonderful to see the fury of the contest in the girl, and
    the bodily struggle she made as if she were rent by the Demons of
    old.

    'I am younger than she is by two or three years, and yet it's me
    that looks after her, as if I was old, and it's she that's always
    petted and called Baby! I detest the name. I hate her! They make
    a fool of her, they spoil her. She thinks of nothing but herself,
    she thinks no more of me than if I was a stock and a stone!' So
    the girl went on.

    'You must have patience.'

    'I WON'T have patience!'

    'If they take much care of themselves, and little or none of you,
    you must not mind it.'

    I WILL mind it.'

    'Hush! Be more prudent. You forget your dependent position.'

    'I don't care for that. I'll run away. I'll do some mischief. I
    won't bear it; I can't bear it; I shall die if I try to bear it!'

    The observer stood with her hand upon her own bosom, looking at the
    girl, as one afflicted with a diseased part might curiously watch
    the dissection and exposition of an analogous case.

    The girl raged and battled with all the force of her youth and
    fulness of life, until by little and little her passionate
    exclamations trailed off into broken murmurs as if she were in
    pain. By corresponding degrees she sank into a chair, then upon
    her knees, then upon the ground beside the bed, drawing the
    coverlet with her, half to hide her shamed head and wet hair in it,
    and half, as it seemed, to embrace it, rather than have nothing to
    take to her repentant breast.

    'Go away from me, go away from me! When my temper comes upon me,
    I am mad. I know I might keep it off if I only tried hard enough,
    and sometimes I do try hard enough, and at other times I don't and
    won't. What have I said! I knew when I said it, it was all lies.
    They think I am being taken care of somewhere, and have all I want.

    They are nothing but good to me. I love them dearly; no people
    could ever be kinder to a thankless creature than they always are
    to me. Do, do go away, for I am afraid of you. I am afraid of
    myself when I feel my temper coming, and I am as much afraid of
    you. Go away from me, and let me pray and cry myself better!'
    The day passed on; and again the wide stare stared itself out; and
    the hot night was on Marseilles; and through it the caravan of the
    morning, all dispersed, went their appointed ways. And thus ever
    by day and night, under the sun and under the stars, climbing the
    dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land
    and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and
    to act and react on one another, move all we restless travellers
    through the pilgrimage of life.
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