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walked close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. Never
once turning his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and bye he
passed into a cross street, which, although densely filled with people,
was not quite so much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a
change in his demeanor became evident. He walked more slowly and with
less object than before--more hesitatingly. He crossed and re-crossed
the way repeatedly without apparent aim; and the press was still so
thick that, at every such movement, I was obliged to follow him closely.
The street was a narrow and long one, and his course lay within it for
nearly an hour, during which the passengers had gradually diminished to
about that number which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the
Park--so vast a difference is there between a London populace and that
of the most frequented American city. A second turn brought us into a
square, brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner
of the stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his
eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon
those who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I
was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of
the square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I
astonished to see him repeat the same walk several times--once nearly
detecting me as he came round with a sudden movement.
In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with
far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast;
the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With
a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a bye-street
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