Only, should you turn aside into one of those little bays on Waterloo Bridge to think the matter over, it will probably seem to you all a muddle--all a mystery.
They cross the Bridge incessantly.

Sometimes in the midst of carts and omnibuses a lorry will appear with great forest trees chained to it.
Then, perhaps, a mason's van with newly lettered tombstones recording how some one loved some one who is buried at Putney.

Then the motor car in front jerks forward, and the tombstones pass too quick for you to read more.

All the time the stream of people never ceases passing from the Surrey side to the Strand; from the Strand to the Surrey side.

It seems as if the poor had gone raiding the town, and now trapesed back to their own quarters, like beetles scurrying to their holes, for that old woman fairly hobbles towards Waterloo, grasping a shiny bag, as if she had been out into the light and now made off with some scraped chicken bones to her hovel underground.