In such a
mood he loved every one, would pat children on the back, help old men
along the road, listen to the long winnings of the reluctant poor. Utterly
genuine he was; he meant every word that he spoke and every smile that he
bestowed.
Now, early in May and in Polchester he was in such a mood. Soon after his
arrival he had discovered that he liked the place and that it promised to
suit him well, but he had never supposed that it could develop into such
perfection. Success already was his, but it was not success of so swift a
kind that plots and plans were not needed. They were very much needed. He
could remember no time in his past life when he had had so admirable a
combination of difficulties to overcome. And they were difficulties of the
right kind. They centred around a figure whom he could really like and
admire. It would have been very unpleasant had he hated Brandon or
despised him. Those were uncomfortable emotions in which he indulged as
seldom as possible.
What he liked, above everything, was a fight, when he need have no
temptation towards anger or bitterness.
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