But that rest must be in the world
which lies beyond the grave. On this side the grave ye have all slept your
final sleep.
The night was one of exceeding darkness; and in this humble quarter of
London, whatever the night happened to be, light or dark, quiet or stormy,
all shops were kept open on Saturday nights until twelve o'clock, at the
least, and many for half an hour longer. There was no rigorous and
pedantic Jewish superstition about the exact limits of Sunday. At the very
worst, the Sunday stretched over from one o'clock, A. M. of one day, up to
eight o'clock A. M. of the next, making a clear circuit of thirty-one
hours. This, surely, was long enough. Marr, on this particular Saturday
night, would be content if it were even shorter, provided it would come
more quickly, for he has been toiling through sixteen hours behind his
counter. Marr's position in life was this: he kept a little hosier's shop,
and had invested in his stock and the fittings of his shop about 180
pounds. Like all men engaged in trade, he suffered some anxieties. He was
a new beginner; but, already, bad debts had alarmed him; and bills were
coming to maturity that were not likely to be met by commensurate sales.
Yet, constitutionally, he was a sanguine hoper. At this time he was a
stout, fresh-colored young man of twenty-seven; in some slight degree
uneasy from his commercial prospects, but still cheerful, and
anticipating--(how vainly!)--that for this night, and the next night, at
least, he will rest his wearied head and his cares upon the faithful bosom
of his sweet lovely young wife.
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