The Man Who Laughs


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He was about to turn and wander long, perhaps, in the intersections of  
the Scrambridge lanes, where there were then more cultivated plots than  
dwellings, more thorn hedges than houses; but fortunately he struck into  
a passage which exists to this day near Trinity schools. This passage  
led him to a water-brink, where there was a roughly built quay with a  
parapet, and to the right he made out a bridge. It was the bridge over  
the Wey, connecting Weymouth with Melcombe Regis, and under the arches  
of which the Backwater joins the harbour.  
Weymouth, a hamlet, was then the suburb of Melcombe Regis, a city and  
port. Now Melcombe Regis is a parish of Weymouth. The village has  
absorbed the city. It was the bridge which did the work. Bridges are  
strange vehicles of suction, which inhale the population, and sometimes  
swell one river-bank at the expense of its opposite neighbour.  
The boy went to the bridge, which at that period was a covered timber  
structure. He crossed it. Thanks to its roofing, there was no snow on  
the planks. His bare feet had a moment's comfort as they crossed them.  
Having passed over the bridge, he was in Melcombe Regis. There were  
fewer wooden houses than stone ones there. He was no longer in the  
village; he was in the city.  
The bridge opened on a rather fine street called St. Thomas's Street. He  
entered it. Here and there were high carved gables and shop-fronts. He  
set to knocking at the doors again: he had no strength left to call or  
shout.  
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Page
236 237 238 239 240

Quick Jump
1 236 472 708 944