He was brooding now, staring out over the country from under sullen brows.

The little, interesting diversity of shapes had vanished from the scene; all that remained was a vast, dark matrix of sorrow and tragedy, the same in all the houses and the river-flats and the people and the birds; they were only shapen differently.

And now that the forms seemed to have melted away, there remained the mass from which all the landscape was composed, a dark mass of struggle and pain.

The factory, the girls, his mother, the large, uplifted church, the thicket of the town, merged into one atmosphere--dark, brooding, and sorrowful, every bit.
"Is that two o'clock striking ?" Mrs.Dawes said in surprise.
Paul started, and everything sprang into form, regained its individuality, its forgetfulness, and its cheerfulness.
They hurried back to work.
When he was in the rush of preparing for the night's post, examining the work up from Fanny's room, which smelt of ironing, the evening postman came in.
"'Mr.Paul Morel,'" he said, smiling, handing Paul a package.

"A lady's handwriting! Don't let the girls see it." The postman, himself a favourite, was pleased to make fun of the girls' affection for Paul.
It was a volume of verse with a brief note: "You will allow me to send you this, and so spare me my isolation.