The pale December sun rose above the mist as she reached the corner of Westminster Bridge, turning the river into silver and flooding the silent streets with a soft, white, tender light.
The tower of Chelsea Church brought back to her remembrance of the wheezy old clergyman who had preached there that Sunday evening, that now seemed so long ago, when her footsteps had first taken her that way by chance.
Always she had intended making inquiries and discovering his name.

Why had she never done so?
It would surely have been easy.

He was someone she had known as a child.

She had become quite convinced of that.

She could see his face close to hers as if he had lifted her up in his arms and was smiling at her.