"Nobody loves it; nobody sees it.
Who cares about the looks of a castaway like me!"
Her journey back was rather a meander than a march. It had no
sprightliness, no purpose; only a tendency. Along the tedious length
of Benvill Lane she began to grow tired, and she leant upon gates and
paused by milestones.
She did not enter any house till, at the seventh or eighth mile, she
descended the steep long hill below which lay the village or townlet
of Evershead, where in the morning she had breakfasted with such
contrasting expectations. The cottage by the church, in which she
again sat down, was almost the first at that end of the village, and
while the woman fetched her some milk from the pantry, Tess, looking
down the street, perceived that the place seemed quite deserted.
"The people are gone to afternoon service, I suppose?" she said.
"No, my dear," said the old woman. "'Tis too soon for that; the
bells hain't strook out yet. They be all gone to hear the preaching
in yonder barn. A ranter preaches there between the services--an
excellent, fiery, Christian man, they say. But, Lord, I don't go to
hear'n! What comes in the regular way over the pulpit is hot enough
for I.
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