She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. I will go with you. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. The fever came. This, then, was the woman from whom Hoddy would not have accepted a cup of water.
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