nherflanks.Bowleysawwhatwasup-askedJimmytobreakfast.HelenmusthaveconfidedinRose.Formyownpart,Ifinditexceedinglydifficulttointerpretsongswithoutwords.AndnowJimmyfeedscrowsinFlandersandHelenvisitshospitals.Oh,lifeisdamnable,lifeiswicked,asRoseShawsaid.
ThelampsofLondonupholdthedarkasuponthepointsofburningbayonets.Theyellowcanopysinksandswellsoverthegreatfour-poster.Passengersinthemail-coachesrunningintoLondonintheeighteenthcenturylookedthroughleaflessbranchesandsawitflaringbeneaththem.Thelightburnsbehindyellowblindsandpinkblinds,andabovefanlights,anddowninbasementwindows.ThestreetmarketinSohoisfiercewithlight.Rawmeat,chinamugs,andsilkstockingsblazeinit.Rawvoiceswrapthemselvesroundtheflaringgas-jets.Armsakimbo,theystandonthepavementbawling—Messrs.KettleandWilkinsontheirwivessitintheshop,furswrappedroundtheirnecks,armsfolded,eyescontemptuous.Suchfacesasonesees.Thelittlemanfingeringthemeatmusthavesquattedbeforethefireininnumerablelodging-houses,andheardandseenandknownsomuchthatitseemstoutteritselfevenvolublyfromdarkeyes,looselips,ashefingersthemeatsilently,hisfacesadasapoet's,andneverasongsung.Shawledwomencarrybabieswithpurpleeyelidsboysstandatstreetcornersgirlslookacrosstheroad—rudeillustrations,picturesinabookwhosepagesweturnoverandoverasifweshouldatlastfindwhatwelookfor.Everyface,everyshop,bedroomwindow,public-house,anddarksquareisapicturefeverishlyturned—insearchofwhat?Itisthesamewithbooks.Whatdoweseekthroughmillionsofpages?Stillhopefullyturningthepages—oh,hereisJacob'sroom.
HesatatthetablereadingtheGlobe.Thepinkishsheetwasspreadflatbeforehim.Heproppedhisfaceinhishand,sothattheskinofhischeekwaswrinkledindeepfolds.Terriblyseverehelooked,set,anddefiant.(Whatpeoplegothroughinhalfanhour!Butnothingcouldsavehim.Theseeventsarefeaturesofourlandscape.AforeignercomingtoLondoncouldscarcelymissseeingSt.Paul's.)Hejudgedlife.Thesepinkishandgreenishnewspapersarethinsheetsofgelatinepressednightlyoverthebrai