She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Wood grasped his companion's arm to attract his attention to this unexpected means of escape. The lips were straight and pale, the chin aggressive, the nose indomitable. . Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days.
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