In summer cool syrups
will come for me from the grocer's shop. Autumn will make the boughs
of my mountain-ash scarlet, and, later, the asbestos in my grate will
put forth its blossoms of flame. The infrequent cart of Buszard or
Mudie will pass my window at all seasons. Nor will this be all. I
shall have friends. Next door, there is a retired military man who has
offered, in a most neighbourly way, to lend me his copy of the Times.
On the other side of my house lives a charming family, who perhaps
will call on me, now and again. I have seen them sally forth, at
sundown, to catch the theatre-train; among them walked a young lady,
the charm of whose figure was ill concealed by the neat waterproof
that overspread her evening dress. Some day it may be...but I
anticipate. These things will be but the cosy accompaniment of my
days. For I shall contemplate the world.
I shall look forth from my window, the laburnum and the mountain-ash
becoming mere silhouettes in the foreground of my vision. I shall look
forth and, in nay remoteness, appreciate the distant pageant of the
world. Humanity will range itself in the columns of my morning paper.
No pulse of life will escape me. The strife of politics, the
intriguing of courts, the wreck of great vessels, wars, dramas,
earthquakes, national griefs or joys; the strange sequels to divorces,
even, and the mysterious suicides of land-agents at Ipswich--in all
such phenomena I shall steep my exhaurient mind.
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