hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as
he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells ringing.
He got away from Mr. Charrington and went down the stairs alone, so as
not to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out
of the door. He had already made up his mind that after a suitable interval
-- a month, say -- he would take the risk of visiting the shop again. It
was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an evening at the Centre. The
serious piece of folly had been to come back here in the first place, after
buying the diary and without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop
could be trusted. However--!
Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would buy further scraps
of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St. Clement's Danes,
take it out of its frame, and carry it home concealed under the jacket of
his overalls. He would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr. Charrington's
memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the