At the risk of reputation, at the loss of dignity, he ran
until he saw a cab. Hailing it, he sprang inside, and, as the
cabman whipped up and the horse responded to the call, he
realized for the first time the full significance of what had
occurred.
Realization, like the need for action, came to him slowly, but
when it came it was with terrible lucidity. He did not swear
as he leaned back in his seat, mechanically watching the
stream of men on their way to business, the belated cars of
green produce blocking the way between the Strand and Covent
Garden. He had no use for oaths; his feelings lay deeper than
mere words. But his mouth was sternly set and his eyes looked
cold.
Outside the Law Courts he dismissed his cab and walked forward
to Clifford's Inn. As he passed through the familiar entrance
a chill fell on him. In the clear, early light it seemed more
than ever a place of dead hopes, dead enterprises, dead
ambitions. In the onward march of life it had been forgotten.
The very air had a breath of unfulfilment.
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