He had only got a few shillings in the world now, except the value of his
stock, which was very little; he could get perhaps 3 or 4 pounds by
selling his music and what few pictures and pieces of furniture still
belonged to him. He thought of trying to live by his pen, but his
writing had dropped off long ago; he no longer had an idea in his head.
Look which way he would he saw no hope; the end, if it had not actually
come, was within easy distance and he was almost face to face with actual
want. When he saw people going about poorly clad, or even without shoes
and stockings, he wondered whether within a few months' time he too
should not have to go about in this way. The remorseless, resistless
hand of fate had caught him in its grip and was dragging him down, down,
down. Still he staggered on, going his daily rounds, buying second-hand
clothes, and spending his evenings in cleaning and mending them.
One morning, as he was returning from a house at the West End where he
had bought some clothes from one of the servants, he was struck by a
small crowd which had gathered round a space that had been railed off on
the grass near one of the paths in the Green Park.
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