I tell you I shall be getting the
sack next thing; they've promised it. Two days last week I wasn't at
the shop, and one day this. It can't go on.'
His companion retorted angrily, and for five minutes they stood in
embittered colloquy. It ended in Bob's turning away and going out
into the street. Clem followed, and they walked westwards in
silence. Beaching City Road, and crossing to the corner where lowers
St. Luke's Hospital--grim abode of the insane, here in the midst
of London's squalor and uproar--they halted to take leave. The
last words they exchanged, after making an appointment, were of
brutal violence.
This was two days after Clara Hewett's arrival in London, and the
same fog still hung about the streets, allowing little to be seen
save the blurred glimmer of gas. Bob sauntered through it, his hands
in his pockets, observant of nothing; now and then a word escaped
his lips, generally an oath. Out of Old Street he turned into
Whitecross Street, whence by black and all but deserted ways--
Barbican and Long Lane--he emerged into West Smithfield. An alley
in the shadow of Bartholomew's Hospital brought him to a certain
house: just as he was about to knock at the door it opened, and Jack
Bartley appeared on the threshold.
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