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 He heard the footman spit angrily behind him, and he walked on. He walked far, and at about six in the evening entered a middle-class restaurant. He took a seat at a table by the window, drank a glass of vodka, nibbled two anchovies, ordered dinner at one and sixpence, drank a bottle of "Iced Chablais." After dinner he had a liqueur. He felt giddy a bit. Some one was playing a barrel-organ, and his head went round to the music. He didn't take his change, and, leaving the restaurant with a little swagger, he tipped the doorkeeper sixpence.

He looked at his nickel watch—it was getting on for seven. Time. Perhaps he would be late, and they would have engaged some one else. He strode forward agitatedly.

Things got in his way awfully:

the roads were up;

the sleepy cabmen kept running their cabs in front of him as he took the crossings;

people kept blocking the road, especially peasants and well-dressed ladies;

when people made way for him, turning to their right, he made way for them, turning to his left, and collided;

beggars kept asking him for money;

walking itself seemed to retard him.

It is difficult to conquer space and time