At any rate,
the darkest hour is before the dawn; and a few days after that
melancholy evening I have described, which Ransom spent in his German
beer-cellar, before a single glass, soon emptied, staring at his future
with an unremunerated eye, he found that the world appeared to have need
of him yet. The "party," as he would have said (I cannot pretend that
his speech was too heroic for that), for whom he had transacted business
in Boston so many months before, and who had expressed at the time but a
limited appreciation of his services (there had been between the lawyer
and his client a divergence of judgement), observing, apparently, that
they proved more fruitful than he expected, had reopened the affair and
presently requested Ransom to transport himself again to the sister
city. His errand demanded more time than before, and for three days he
gave it his constant attention. On the fourth he found he was still
detained; he should have to wait till the evening--some important papers
were to be prepared. He determined to treat the interval as a holiday,
and he wondered what one could do in Boston to give one's morning a
festive complexion. The weather was brilliant enough to minister to any
illusion, and he strolled along the streets, taking it in.
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