He could easily earn four pounds a week, and had no desires,
save in the direction of fly-fishing--not an expensive diversion.
He knew better than to marry. He existed quietly; and one year
trod on the heels of another, and carried him from thirty to forty
and forty to fifty, and no one found out his identity, though
there are several direct trains daily between Derby and Knype.
And now, owing to the death of a friend and a glass of beer, he
was in Child Row, crossing the street towards the house whose
ownership had caused him to quit it.
He knocked on the door with the handle of his umbrella. There was
no knocker; there never had been a knocker. III
The door opened cautiously, as such doors in the Five Towns do,
after a shooting of bolts and a loosing of chains; it opened to
the extent of about nine inches, and Toby Hall saw the face of a
middle-aged woman eyeing him.
'Is this Mrs Hall's?' he asked sternly.
'No. It ain't Mrs Hall's. It's Mrs Tansley's.'
'I thowt--'
The door opened a little wider.
'That's not you, Tobias?' said the woman unmoved.
'I reckon it is, though,' replied Toby, with a difficult smile.
'Bless us!' exclaimed the woman. The door oscillated slightly
under her hand. 'Bless us!' she repeated. And then suddenly,
'You'd happen better come in, Tobias.
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