The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. . I must stay a minute longer, if only to see you smile. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances.
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