I think I had the grace, with one
corner of my mind, to be glad that I had sent the
London letter: I know very well that with the rest and
worst of me, I repented bitterly of that precipitate
act. On one point, however, my whole multiplex estate
of man was unanimous: the letter being gone, there was
no help but I must follow. The money was accordingly
divided in two unequal shares: for the first, Mr. Gregg
got me a bill in the name of Dijon to meet my
liabilities in Paris; for the second, as I had already
cash in hand for the expenses of my journey, he
supplied me with drafts on San Francisco.
The rest of my business in Edinburgh, not to dwell on a
very agreeable dinner with the lawyer or the horrors of
the family luncheon, took the form of an excursion with
the stonemason, who led me this time to no suburb or
work of his old hands, but, with an impulse both
natural and pretty, to that more enduring home which he
had chosen for his clay. It was in a cemetery, by some
strange chance immured within the bulwarks of a prison;
standing, besides, on the margin of a cliff, crowded
with elderly stone memorials, and green with turf and
ivy.
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