'Yes, he's a-gone,' he thought; 'another little baby. Old men an' maidens, young men an' little children; it's a-goin' on all the time. Where 'e is now there'll be no marryin', no, nor givin' out in marriage; till death do us part.'
The wind, sweeping across the filled-in hole, carried the rustle of his husky breathing, the dry, smothered sobbing of the seamstress, out across the shadows' graves, to those places, to those streets....
From the baby's funeral Hilary and Martin walked away together, and far behind them, across the road, the little model followed. For some time neither spoke; then Hilary, stretching out his hand towards a squalid alley, said:
“They haunt us and drag us down. A long, dark passage. Is there a light at the far end, Martin?”
“Yes,” said Martin gruffly.
“I don't see it.”
Martin looked at him.
“Hamlet!”
Hilary did not reply.
The young man watched him sideways. “It's a disease to smile like that!”