The mist seemed to lend keenness to the air.

At the bottom of Queen's Gate the coachman swept of himself to the left into the Cromwell Road; Oscar seemed to wake out of his stupor.
"No, Frank," he cried, "no, no," and he fumbled at the handle of the door, "I must get out; I will not go.

I will not go." "Sit still," I said in despair, "I'll tell the coachman," and I put my head out of the window and cried: "Oakley Street, Oakley Street, Chelsea, Robert." I do not think I spoke again till we got to Oakley Street.

I was consumed with rage and contemptuous impatience.

I had done the best I knew and had failed.