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but I knew he must have left long since. Traddles still re-
mained, perhaps, but it was very doubtful; and I had not
sufficient confidence in his discretion or good luck, however
strong my reliance was on his good nature, to wish to trust
him with my situation. So I crept away from the wall as Mr.
Creakle’s boys were getting up, and struck into the long
dusty track which I had first known to be the Dover Road
when I was one of them, and when I little expected that any
eyes would ever see me the wayfarer I was now, upon it.
What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday
morning at Yarmouth! In due time I heard the church-bells
ringing, as I plodded on; and I met people who were going
to church; and I passed a church or two where the congre-
gation were inside, and the sound of singing came out into
the sunshine, while the beadle sat and cooled himself in
the shade of the porch, or stood beneath the yew-tree, with
his hand to his forehead, glowering at me going by. But the
peace and rest of the old Sunday morning were on every-
thing, except me. That was the difference. I felt quite wicked
in my dirt and dust, with my tangled hair. But for the quiet
picture I had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and
beauty, weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, I
hardly think I should have had the courage to go on until
next day. But it always went before me, and I followed.
I got, that Sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on
the straight road, though not very easily, for I was new to
that kind of toil. I see myself, as evening closes in, coming
over the bridge at Rochester, footsore and tired, and eating
bread that I had bought for supper. One or two little houses,