Lucius Davoren, Volume II by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Not very far did Geoffrey Hossack proceed upon his Norwegian voyage. At Hull he discovered that-perusing his Bradshaw with a too rapid eye, and a somewhat disordered mind-he had mistaken the date of the steamer's departure, and must waste two entire days in that prosperous port, waiting for the setting forth of that vessel. Even one day in that thriving commercial town seemed to him intolerably long. He perambulated King William-street and the market-place, Silver-street, Myton-gate, Low-gate, and all the gates; stared at the shipping; lost his way amidst a tangle of quays and dry docks and wet docks and store-houses and moving bridges, which were for ever barring his way; and exhausted the resources of Kingston-upon-Hull in the space of two hours. Then, in very despair, he took rail to Withernsea, and dined at a gigantic hotel, where he was ministered to by a London waiter, who provided him with the regulation fried sole and cutlet. Having washed down these too familiar viands with two or three glasses of Manzanilla, he set forth in quest of a solitude where to smoke his cigar in communion with that vast waste of waters-the German Ocean-and his own melancholy thoughts.

Go to Norway; try to forget Janet Bertram amid those lonely hills, with no companions save the two faithful lads who carried his guns, and performed the rough services of life under canvas? Try to forget her amidst the solitude of nature? Vain hope! An hour's contemplation of the subject on that lonely shore, remote from the parade and the band and all the holiday traffic of a popular watering-place, was enough to make a complete change in Mr. Hossack's plans. He would not go to Norway. Why should he put the North Sea betwixt himself and his love? Who could tell what might happen in his absence, what changes might come to pass involving all his chances of happiness, and he, dolt and idiot, too far away to profit by their arising? No; he would stay in England, within easy reach of his idol. He might write her a little line now and then, just to remind her of the mere fact of his existence, and to acquaint her with his abode. She had not forbidden him to write. Decidedly, come what might, he would not leave England.