He declared to himself at moments
that he would either win it back or have done with consciousness
for ever; he made this idea his one motive in fine, made it so much
his passion that none other, to compare with it, seemed ever to
have touched him. The lost stuff of consciousness became thus for
him as a strayed or stolen child to an unappeasable father; he
hunted it up and down very much as if he were knocking at doors and
enquiring of the police. This was the spirit in which, inevitably,
he set himself to travel; he started on a journey that was to be as
long as he could make it; it danced before him that, as the other
side of the globe couldn't possibly have less to say to him, it
might, by a possibility of suggestion, have more. Before he
quitted London, however, he made a pilgrimage to May Bartram's
grave, took his way to it through the endless avenues of the grim
suburban necropolis, sought it out in the wilderness of tombs, and,
though he had come but for the renewal of the act of farewell,
found himself, when he had at last stood by it, beguiled into long
intensities.
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