one of them was
Angela, and that she stopped on seeing me and cried:

"Hello! Here I am again, you see! _Giovanni's dead, and I don't care a
damn!_"

I remember that she said something else--it was about Sister Mildred,
but my mind did not take it in--and at the next moment she left me, and
I heard her laughter once more as she swept round the corner.

I hardly know what happened next, for here comes one of the blank places
in my memory, with nothing to light it except vague thoughts of Martin
(and that soulless night in Bloomsbury when the newspapers announced
that he was lost), until, wandering aimlessly through streets and
streets of people--such multitudes of people, no end of people--I found
myself back at Charing Cross.

The waiting crowd was now larger and more excited than before, and the
traffic at both sides of the station was stopped.

"He's coming! He's coming! Here he is!" the people cried, and then there
were deafening shouts and cheers.

I recall the sight of a line of policemen pushing people back (I was
myself pushed back); I recall the sight of a big motor-car containing
three men and a woman, ploughing its way through; I recall the sight of
one of the men raising his cap; of the crowd rushing to shake hands with
him; then of the car swinging away, and of the people running after it
with a noise like that of the racing of a noisy river.

It is the literal truth that never once did I ask myself what this
tumult was about, and that for some time after it was over--a full hour
at least--I had a sense of walking in my sleep, as if my body were
passing through the streets of the West End of London while my soul was
somewhere else altogether.

Thus at one moment, as I was going by the National Gallery and thought I
caught the sound of Martin's name, I felt as if I were back in Glen Raa,
and it was I myself who had been calling it.

At another moment, when I was standing at the edge of the pavement in
Piccadilly Circus, which was ablaze with electric light and thronged
with people (for the theatres and music-halls were emptying, men in
uniform were running about with whistles, policemen were directing the
traffic, and streams of carriages were flowing by), I felt as if I were
back in my native island, where I was alone on the dark shore while the
sea was smiting me.

Again, after a brusque voice had said, "Move on, please," I followed the
current of pedestrians down Piccadilly--it must have been