At night he would return to
Holloway worn out, and distress Adela with descriptions of the
misery he had witnessed.
'I'm not sorry for it,' he once exclaimed. 'I cannot be sorry. Let
things get worse and worse the mending'll be all the nearer. Why
don't they march in a body to the West End? I don't mean march in a
violent sense, though that'll have to come, I expect. But why don't
they make a huge procession and go about the streets in an orderly
way--just to let it be seen what their numbers are--just to give
the West End a hint? I'll propose that one of these days. It'll be a
risky business, but we can't think of that when thousands are half
starving. I could lead them, I feel sure I could! It wants someone
with authority over them, and I think I've got that. There's no
telling what I may do yet. I say, Adela, bow would it sound--
"Richard Mutimer, First President of the English Republic"?'
And in the meantime Alice sat in her house at Wimbledon, abandoned.
The solitude seemed to be driving her mad. Rodman came down very
occasionally for a few hours in the daytime, but never passed a
night with her. He told her he had a great affair on hand, a very
great affair, which was to make their fortunes ten times over. She
must be patient; women couldn't understand business.
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