But Ralph could not sleep, nor could he rest. He was laboring under
too much excitement still to do either. He walked nervously about the
cottage for a while, then he started down toward the city. He went
first to Sharpman's office, and the clerk told him that Mr. Sharpman
had left word that Ralph need not go to Wilkesbarre that day. Then he
went on to the heart of the city. He was trying to divert himself,
trying to drown his thought, as people try who are suffering from the
reproaches of conscience.
He walked down to the railroad station. He wondered if Rhyming Joe had
gone. He supposed he had. He did not care to see him now, at any rate.
He sat on a bench in the waiting-room for a few minutes to rest,
then he went out into the street again. But he was very wretched. It
seemed to him as though all persons whom he met looked down on him
disdainfully, as if they knew of his proposed deceit, and despised him
for it. A lady coming toward him crossed to the other side of the walk
before she reached him. He wondered if she saw disgrace in his face
and was trying to avoid him.
After that he left the busy streets and walked back, by a less
frequented route, toward home. The day was very bright and warm, but
the brightness had a cold glare in Ralph's eyes, and he actually
shivered as he walked on in the shade of the trees. He crossed to the
sunny side of the street, and hurried along through the suburbs and
up the hill.
Widow Maloney called to him as he reached the cottage door, to ask
after his health; but he told her he was feeling better, and went on
into his own room.
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