But that attempt was a most dismal failure. In the first place, there
was very little in the paper to read: and in the second, Joseph Wilmot
would have been unable to chain his attention to the page upon which his
eyes were fixed, though all the wisdom of the world had been
concentrated upon that one sheet of printed paper.
No; he could not read. He could only think. He could only think of this
strange chance which had come to him after five-and-thirty weary years.
He could only think of his probable meeting with Henry Dunbar.
He entered the village public-house at a little after one, and he stayed
there throughout the rest of the day, drinking brandy-and-water--not
immoderately: he was very careful and watchful of himself in that
matter--taking a snack of bread and cold meat for his dinner, and
thinking of Henry Dunbar.
In that he never varied, let him do what he would.
In the railway carriage, at the Basingstoke inn, at the station, through
the long sleepless night at the public-house by the water, in the
tailor's shop, even when he was most occupied by the choice of his
clothes, he had still thought of Henry Dunbar. From the time of his
meeting the old clerk at the Waterloo terminus, he had never ceased to
think of Henry Dunbar.
He never once thought of his brother: not so much even as to wonder
whether the stroke had been fatal,--whether the old man was yet dead.
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