hi stranger

at mudie's corner in oxford street all the red and blue beads had run together on the string. the motor omnibuses were locked. mr. spalding going to the city looked at mr. charles budgeon bound for shepherd's bush. the proximity of the omnibuses gave the outside passengers an opportunity to stare into each other's faces. yet few took advantage of it. each had his own business to think of. each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title, james spalding, or charles budgeon, and the passengers going the opposite way could read nothing at all - save 'a man with the red moustache,' 'a young man in grey smoking a pipe.'

her head against a pillar

"somehow it seems to matter."

silver words

talking, talking, talking - as if everything could be talked - the soul itself slipped through the lips in thin silver disks which dissolve in young men's minds like silver, like moonlight. oh, far away they'd remember it, and deep in dullness gaze back on it, and come to refresh themselves again.