If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. The Iron Bar. Giles's church, the bell of which continued tolling all the time, passed the pound, and entered Oxford Road, or, as it was then not unfrequently termed, Tyburn Road. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder.
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