The hour of twelve was tolling out across the water from the little church on Kew Green, when Sally fitted her borrowed latch-key into the door.

She had performed the journey back to Kew Bridge in a stupor of mind that could hold no single thought, review no single event with any clearness of vision.

It was as if not one evening, but three days, had passed by since she had left the office of Bonsfield & CO .-- the day they had dined together--the day on which they had watched that terrible fight--the day, the last of all, when she had awakened from unconsciousness, had struggled through a cruel agony of mind, and had finally said good-bye to him for ever.

How was it possible, with the length, breadth and depth of three days all crushed into the microscopic space of five hours--a dizzy whirling acceleration of time--how was it possible for her to think logically, consecutively, to even think at all?
She could not think.

She had lain back in the carriage, her head lax against the cushions, and simply permitted the whole procession of events, like some retreating army with death at its heels, to stagger across her brain.
Down the old river-path to the Hewsons' house, she had walked as if asleep, the glazed eyes of the somnambulist, staring in front, but seeing nothing.