The door beneath which he was sitting suddenly opened; he staggered up and onwards.
But the cold and the weakness and the anguish of dread grew upon him.
He could not remember the streets by which he had come.

He stumped on, fancying that he recognised this and that object, and at length knew that he had reached Westminster Bridge Road, The joy of drawing near home supported him.

He had only to go the length of Hercules Buildings, and then he would be close to the end of Paradise Street.

He reached the grave-yard, walking for the most part as in a terrible dream, among strange distorted shapes of men and women, the houses tottering black on either hand, and ever that anvil-beat of the blood at his temples.
Then of a sudden his wooden limb slipped, and he fell to the ground.
He was precisely in front of the Pooles' house.

A woman just passing, who happened to know Mrs.Poole, ran up to the door and knocked, and, when Mrs.Poole came, asked for some water to throw over a poor old man who was in a fit on the pavement.