carrying the brief case containing the book, which had remained between his feet while he worked and under his body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep in his bath, although the water was barely more than tepid. With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the stair above Mr. Charrington’s shop. He was tired, but not sleepy any longer. He opened the window, lit the dirty little oilstove, and put on a pan of water for coffee. Julia would arrive presently; meanwhile there was the book. He sat down in the sluttish armchair and undid the straps of the
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