Eighteen months ago he had been a strong walker, and the
snow-bound paths of Swiss mountains had been a joy to him. He paused as
he was slowly dragging himself on, and looked up at the wretched,
desolate, comfortless abode which he called his home. Its dreariness
was so odious to him that he was half-minded to lay himself down where
he was, and let the night air come upon him and do its worst. In such
case, however, some Italian doctor would be sent down who would say
that he was mad. Above all the things, and to the last, he must save
himself from that degradation.
When he had crawled up to the house, he went to his child, and found
that the woman had put the boy to bed. Then he was angry with himself
in that he himself had not seen to this, and kept up his practice of
attending the child to the last. He would, at least, be true to his
resolution, and prepare for the boy's return to his mother. Not knowing
how otherwise to manage it, he wrote that night the following note to
Mr Glascock:
'Casalunga,
Thursday night.
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