He wondered, beating against the bars of his poverty, if money would
have helped him.  But the grim, endless city, hiding its million
secrets, seemed to mock the thought.  A few pounds he had scraped
together he spent in advertisements; but he expected no response,
and none came.  It was not likely she would see them. 

And so after a time the park, and even the streets round about it,
became hateful to him; and he moved away to another part of London,
hoping to forget.  But he never quite succeeded.  Always it would
come back to him when he was not thinking: the broad, quiet walk
with its prim trees and gay beds of flowers.  And always he would
see her seated there, framed by the fading light.  At least, that
much of her: the little spiritual face, and the brown shoes
pointing downwards, and between them the little fawn gloves folded
upon her lap. 

End of Project Gutenberg Etext Malvina of Brittany, by Jerome K.  Jerome