Silas found his way along the village street by following the outer edge
of the pavement with his stick; as he went he snorted and muttered.
“I’ll have nothing to do with Nan’s kindness,” he said to himself
several times. “She’s easily satisfied; she’s comfortable; she’s
grateful. She shuts the eyes that she might see with.” This thought made
him very angry, and he strode recklessly along, knocking against the few
folk that were abroad on that inclement evening. One or two of them
stopped him with a “Why, Dene! give you a hand on your way anywhere?”
but he rejected them, as he was determined to reject all comfort and
patience that Nan might offer him. He liked the wind, that opposed him
and made his progress difficult; he struck out against it, the struggle
deluding him into a reassuring illusion of his own courage. He welcomed
the wind for the sake of that tortuous flattery....
He would have made his way to Lady Malleson, but he was afraid to
venture under the trees in the park, where a bough might be blown down
upon him.