Excerpt from The Romance of a Few Days
Richard Faulconbridge rose from his comfortable seat and balanced himself with a half-smile of pleasurable anticipation on his good-natured, boyish face.
The train, roaring a deep-noted and persistent warning, had swept majestically round a sharp curve on the high embankment, and was now running straight and unflinchingly for the terminus. As he stood there a little irresolutely, he suddenly realized, with that curious mixed feeling of satisfaction and regret which so often comes at a journey's end, that a pleasant experience was fast ending. His eyes dropped mechanically to the handsome leather cushions, the luxurious fittings, the carpeted floor. It had been so very comfortable that it seemed a pity to leave it all. Then, mechanically, he did the things one usually does. He took off his hat and smoothed his reddish hair; he rolled up a rug; he fidgeted with a suit-case, only to put it down again. It was a nuisance that he had so soon to make a move.
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