We parted in London next day, I hardly know where.

She seemed so part of my being, was for me so little more than an intellectual force, so little of a physical personality, that I cannot remember where my eyes lost sight of her.
I had desolately made the crossing from country to country, had convoyed my aunt to her big house in one of the gloomy squares in a certain district, and then we had parted.

Even afterward it was as if she were still beside me, as if I had only to look round to find her eyes upon me.

She remained the propelling force, I a boat thrust out upon a mill-pond, moving more and more slowly.

I had been for so long in the shadow of that great house, shut in among the gloom, that all this light, this blazing world--it was a June day in London--seemed impossible, and hateful.