"Are you going out?" she asked; "then I will go too, and we will keep each other company."
He went forward with long strides and she followed him. In order to vex her he chose the sunny side of the street by a long white wall, where the heat was intense, and the reflected light blinded the eyes. Then he dragged her out to Chelsea, where there was no house that could give shade.
She followed like an evil spirit.
When they came to the river, he thought for a moment of pushing her into the water, but did not. He went along the bank where lime-ships unloaded, steam-cranes puffed out coal-smoke, and chains hindered their walking. He hoped that she would fall and hurt herself, or be pushed down by a workman, and wished that a coal-heaver would embrace and kiss her—so boundless was his hate and hers.
It was in vain that he mounted over barrels and wheel-barrows and threaded his way through heaps of lime. He thought of jumping into the river and swimming to the other side, but was withheld by the thought that she perhaps could swim also.
At last he made a wide circuit like an ox persecuted by a gadfly, and went down to Westminster. There the back streets swarmed with the strangest figures, like shapes seen in a nightmare. He entered the abbey, as if to shake off a pest, but she followed, silent and unweariable.
Finally he had to return home, and when he got there, he sat down on one chair, and she seated herself opposite him.
Then he understood how a man can become a murderer, and determined to fly, as soon as he had written for money.
The night came, and he hoped now to be able to collect his thoughts, and be master of himself.
She pretended to be asleep, but he could tell by her breathing that she did not really sleep.