If the hue and cry after Damaris, which he had prophesied, were already afoot, he intended to keep clear of it, studiously to give it the slip.

To this end, once in the fairway of the river he headed the boat downstream, rowing strongly though cautiously for some minutes, careful to avoid all plunge of the oars, all swish of them or drip.

Then, the lights now hidden by the higher level and scrub of the warren, he sat motionless letting the boat drift on the seaward setting current.
The fine rain fell without sound.

It shut out either bank creating a singular impression of solitude and isolation, and of endlessness too.
There seemed no reason why it should ever cease.

And this delusion of permanence, the enclosing soft-clinging darkness served to heighten.