The sad case of those who love in vain, you
remember, is the subject of the book. The saddest of autobiographies,
it has been called.
An odd thing, this, I think. Tearing home (for the more he was
engrossed in mind the quicker he walked), Tommy was not revelling in
Pym's praise; he was neither blanching nor smiling at the thought that
he of all people had written as one who was unloved; he was not
wondering what Grizel would say to it; he had even forgotten to sigh
over his own coming dissolution (indeed, about this time the
flower-pot began to fade from his memory). What made him cut his way
so excitedly through the streets was this: Pym had questioned his use
of the word "untimely" in chapter eight. And Tommy had always been
uneasy about that word.
He glared at every person he passed, and ran into perambulators. He
rushed past his chambers like one who no longer had a home. He was in
the park now, and did not even notice that the Row was empty, that
mighty round a deserted circus; management, riders, clowns, all the
performers gone on their provincial tour, or nearly all, for a lady on
horseback sees him, remembers to some extent who he is, and gives
chase. It is our dear Mrs.
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