The morning was grey-skied, but full of a hard quality
of light, which brought out to the uncompromising
uttermost the dilapidated squalor of the Surrey side.
The water was low, and from the mud and ooze of the
ugly opposite shore, or perhaps from the discoloured
stream itself, there proceeded a smell which offended
his unaccustomed nostril. A fitful, gusty wind was
blowing from the east, and ever and again it gathered
dust in eddying swoops from the roadway, and flung it in his face.
He walked on toward the City, without any conscious purpose,
and with no very definite reflections. It occurred to him
that if his wife did impute to him some unworthy motive
in stealing off to London, and made herself unhappy in doing
so--that would at least provide the compensation of showing
that she cared. The thought, however, upon examination,
contained very meagre elements of solace. He could not in
the least be sure about any of the workings of her mind.
There might be more or less annoyance mixed up this morning
with the secret thoughts she had concerning him--or
she might not be bothering her head about him at all.
This latter contingency had never presented itself
so frankly to him before. He looked hard at it, and saw
more semblances of probability about it than he liked.
It might very well be that she was not thinking about him
one way or the other.
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