So I opened the glass door and stepped into the berceau.
I went to my own alley: had it been dark, or even dusk, I should have
hardly ventured there, for I had not yet forgotten the curious
illusion of vision (if illusion it were) experienced in that place
some months ago. But a ray of the setting sun burnished still the grey
crown of Jean Baptiste; nor had all the birds of the garden yet
vanished into their nests amongst the tufted shrubs and thick wall-
ivy. I paced up and down, thinking almost the same thoughts I had
pondered that night when I buried my glass jar--how I should make some
advance in life, take another step towards an independent position;
for this train of reflection, though not lately pursued, had never by
me been wholly abandoned; and whenever a certain eye was averted from
me, and a certain countenance grew dark with unkindness and injustice,
into that track of speculation did I at once strike; so that, little
by little, I had laid half a plan.
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