No one observed her solitary state; she was one of millions walking about the streets because it was Jubilee Day, and every moment packed her more tightly among the tramping populace.

A procession, this, greatly more significant than that of Royal personages earlier in the day.

Along the main thoroughfares of mid-London, wheel-traffic was now suspended; between the houses moved a double current of humanity, this way and that, filling the whole space, so that no vehicle could possibly have made its way on the wonted track.
At junctions, pickets of police directed progress; the slowly advancing masses wheeled to left or right at word of command, carelessly obedient.
But for an occasional bellow of hilarious blackguardism, or for a song uplifted by strident voices, or a cheer at some flaring symbol that pleased the passers, there was little noise; only a thud, thud of footfalls numberless, and the low, unvarying sound that suggested some huge beast purring to itself in stupid contentment.
Nancy forgot her identity, lost sight of herself as an individual.

Her blood was heated by close air and physical contact.

She did not think, and her emotions differed little from those of any shop-girl let loose.
The 'culture,' to which she laid claim, evanesced in this atmosphere of exhalations.