Rain no longer fell, but the gusty and bitter wind still swept about
the black streets. Walking side by side without speech, Clara and
her companion left the neighbourhood of the prison, and kept a
northward direction till they reached the junction of highways where
stands the 'Angel.' Here was the wonted crowd of loiterers and the
press of people waiting for tramcar or omnibus--east, west, south,
or north; newsboys, eager to get rid of their last batch, were
crying as usual, 'Ech-ow! Exteree speciul! Ech-ow! Steendard!' and a
brass band was blaring out its saddest strain of merry dance-music.
The lights gleamed dismally in rain-puddles and on the wet pavement.
With the wind came whiffs of tobacco and odours of the drinking-bar.

They crossed, and walked the length of Islington High Street, then a
short way along its continuation, Upper Street. Once or twice Clara
had barely glanced at Kirkwood, but his eyes made no reply, and his
lips were resolutely closed. She did not seem offended by this
silence; on the contrary, her face was cheerful, and she smiled to
herself now and then. One would have imagined that she found
pleasure in the sombreness of which she was the cause.

She stopped at length, and said:

'I suppose you don't want to go in with me?'

'No.'