I leave Piccadilly an unhealthy, unwholesome prig.

At Charing Cross I begin to feel my blood stir in my veins.

From Ludgate Circus to Cheapside I am a human thing with human feeling throbbing in my heart, and human thought throbbing in my brain--with fancies, sympathies, and hopes.

At the Bank my mind becomes a blank.

As I walk on, my senses grow coarse and blunted; and by the time I reach Whitechapel I am a poor little uncivilised cad.