Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. He went on with intense urgency. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. ” He stopped abruptly. ‘Difficult, I grant you.
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