There were pigeons' feathers in
the pillow, depend on't. To think of two grown-up folk like you and
Mary, not knowing death could never come easy to a person lying on a
pillow with pigeons' feathers in!"
Jem was glad to escape from all this talking, to the solitude and
quiet of his own room, where he could lie and think uninterruptedly
of what had happened and remained to be done.
The first thing was to seek an interview with Mr. Duncombe, his
former master. Accordingly, early the next morning Jem set off on
his walk to the works, where for so many years his days had been
spent; where for so long a time his thoughts had been thought, his
hopes and fears experienced. It was not a cheering feeling to
remember that henceforward he was to be severed from all these
familiar places; nor were his spirits enlivened by the evident
feelings of the majority of those who had been his fellow-workmen.
As he stood in the entrance to the foundry, awaiting Mr. Duncombe's
leisure, many of those employed in the works passed him on their
return from breakfast; and, with one or two exceptions, without any
acknowledgment of former acquaintance beyond a distant nod at the
utmost.
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