Before closing his eyes he said to
himself that he must rise at seven; business claimed him tomorrow,
and he felt it necessary to see Mrs. Clover (or Lady Polperro) with
the least possible delay. However tired, Gammon could always wake at
the hour he appointed. The dark, snowy morning found him little
disposed to turn out; he had something of a headache, and a very bad
taste in the mouth; for all that he faced duty with his accustomed
vigour. Of course he had to leave the house without breakfast, but a
cup of tea at the nearest eating-house supplied his immediate wants,
and straightway he betook himself to the china shop near Battersea
Park Road.
That was not a pleasant meeting with his friend Mrs. Clover. To
describe all that had happened yesterday would have taxed his powers
at any time; at eight-thirty a.m. on the first of January, his head
aching and his stomach ill at ease, he was not likely to achieve
much in the way of lucid narrative. Mrs. Clover regarded him with a
severe look. His manifest black eye, and an unwonted slovenliness of
appearance, could not but suggest that he had taken leave of the
bygone year in a too fervid spirit.
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