"He can take away the bookcases I made for them!" declared Mrs. Massel. "The books will not be in thy way!"
"Loz shen zein! Let it be, then! Well, he will need a handcart. Our greengrocer has one. I'll send him down at eight o'clock!"
A miserable drizzle was falling as Philip gathered the collection of books he so much prized and placed them on the dirty brown sacking of the handcart. Angel Street was more dark and wretched than the Angel Street of any of his memories. His mother stood on the doorstep forlornly, coughing heavily now and again in the rain and wind. He had laid the soap-box bookcases she had made for him over his books and the man was securing the whole load under a final layer of sacking with coils of coarse rope.
"I'm going now, mamma!" He kissed her drawn face.
"Go, my little one!"
As the cart splashed over the greasy setts of Angel Street through the damp darkness, she still stood watching, rain in her hair and soaking her blouse. Slightly she lifted her hands towards the receding boy. He looked back and saw her still standing there. He came back swiftly and covered her face with kisses. But as he again withdrew, again she stood there emptily. Whither did her lorn figure bring back his mind? Whither? Somewhere long ago, far off! Then he remembered. He remembered his image of her alone in the Russian darkness, when the dead child had been taken from her arms. She had stood there emptily as now ... But the handcart was lurching round into Doomington Road....
BOOK III
APHRODITE