Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. 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. She sensed that he was looking for her. CHAPTER XXXII. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. Thankfully, he seemed pleased the moment he saw her face, which her mother had made her wash for weeks with the pulp of apples, orange water, and 21 extract of borage among other things. On their left the river, with its gloomy pile of buildings on the opposite side, and a huge revolving advertisement throwing its strange reflection upon the black water.
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