The faint luminosity beneath me grew, and then the lights of London seemed shooting up to meet me.

I was coming down on the clock tower at Westminster.

I gave myself a convulsive twist, hoping to escape it, and fell into the river.
And then I awoke.
But it stays with me: the weary sadness of the Angel's face.

I cannot shake remembrance from me.

Would I have done better, had I taken the money I had spent upon these fooleries, gone down with it among the poor myself, asking nothing in return.