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On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things

just as they were in the hole in the wall, "and very likely, it's

on purpose to search when I'm out," he thought, and stopped

short. But he was possessed by such despair, such cynicism of

misery, if one may so call it, that with a wave of his hand he

went on. "Only to get it over!"

In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain

had fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again

the stench from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men,

the Finnish pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone

straight in his eyes, so that it hurt him to look out of them,

and he felt his head going round--as a man in a fever is apt to

feel when he comes out into the street on a bright sunny day.

When he reached the turning into the street, in an agony of

trepidation he looked down it... at the house... and at once

averted his eyes.