And at last Ann Veronica and Miss Miniver came down the dark staircase and out into the foggy spaces of the London squares, and crossed Russell Square, Woburn Square, Gordon Square, making an oblique route to Ann Veronica’s lodging. You never can go back. McClintock's initial revulsion was natural; he was an honest man. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. She went further: she doubted that he was fully conscious of where he was.
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