I suffering face had from the first deeply touched Harold, and, as often as he had occasion to speak to her, he lingered as long as possible, using every excuse to listen longer to her voice, and then pondering miserably for hours over her sad fate. Harold paced the streets for more than an hour, in that dogged, aimless way which had become his habit of late. Walk about London, reader, any part of it, and at any time of the day, and you are sure to notice more than one such figure, the bent shoulders, the drooping head, the worn, careless attire, above all that fixed, hopeless look indicating too clearly a mind warped and spirit crushed in the brutalizing struggle with his fellow men, a struggle compared with which to have fought with beasts at Ephesus were nought. For days past such ideas had haunted Harold. It was past noon, but to-day he had not broken his fast, and hunger was making him so faint that his weak frame staggered as he walked.
Society prescribes a brutal demeanour towards all who are so inconsiderate as to appear in rags.
On reaching the house, a glance told him that the half-crown had already been taken in. His little friend from next door was no longer playing about, but by dint of peering he could see someone moving in the kitchen. He entered with his latchkey, went down the dark stone steps, and knocked at the kitchen-door. It was opened at once by Mrs. Wilson, who, as well as Lizzie in the background, wore a look of joy which Harold could not but notice, so unwonted was it. He had not long to wait for an explanation, for the mother at once poured out a stream of talk.