I was looking over my shoulder at the face of the house, was wondering which was her window.
"Like a love-sick boy--like a damn love-sick boy," I growled at myself.
My sense of humour was returning to me.

There began a pilgrimage in search of companionship.
London was a desert more solitary than was believable.

On those brilliant summer evenings the streets were crowded, were alive, bustled with the chitter-chatter of footsteps, with the chitter-chatter of voices, of laughter.
It was impossible to walk, impossible to do more than tread on one's own toes; one was almost blinded by the constant passing of faces.

It was like being in a wheat-field with one's eyes on a level with the indistinguishable ears.

One was alone in one's intense contempt for all these faces, all these contented faces; one towered intellectually above them; one towered into regions of rarefaction.