advantage, or very nearly all, that I had ever won from the King--(for I
knew, that although he had been merry at the end of the time, he would
not forget how I had worsted him)--and as for Dolly, I supposed she
would never speak to me again. It had been bad enough when I had left
Hare Street nearly a twelvemonth ago: my return to it now was a hundred
times worse.

Although Dolly, however, would not speak to me, I was entirely
determined to speak to Dolly. I proposed to rehearse to her what I had
done, and why; and when that was over, I would leave it in her hands
whether I remained at Hare Street a day or two, or left again next
morning. More than a day or two, I did not even hope for. I had insulted
her--it seemed--beyond forgiveness. Yet, besides my miserableness, there
was something very like pleasure as well, though of a grim sort. I had
spoken my mind to her, pretty well, and would do so more explicitly;
and I was to speak my mind very well indeed to her father. There was a
real satisfaction to me in that prospect. Then, once more, I would shut
the door for ever on Hare Street, and go back again to town, and begin
all over again at the beginning, and try to retrieve a little of what I
had lost. Such then were my thoughts.

We supped, at Ware--at the _Saracen's Head_, and the same wretched
performance was gone through as at the _Cross-Keys_. Night was fallen
completely; and we had candles that guttered not a little. Dolly was
silent, however, this time, even to her maid. She did not give me one
look, all through supper.

When I came out afterwards to the horses, the yard was all in a mist: I
could see no more than a spot of light where the lamp should be by the
stable-door. The host came with me.