'She is gone, vanished,' said my aunt sharply, for my eagerness to
see made me rude.
'What was she like?' I asked.
'She was a young slender girl, holding out a bunch of small fancy
baskets of woven colours, through which the rain was dripping. She
was dressed in rags, and through the rags shone, here and there,
patches of her shoulders; and she wore a dingy red handkerchief round
her head. She stood in the wet and mud, beneath the lamp, quite
unconscious apparently of the bustle and confusion around her.'
Almost at the same moment our carriage drew up. I lingered on the
step as long as possible. My mother made a sign of impatience at the
delay, and I got into the carriage. Spite of the rain, I put down the
window and leaned out. I forgot the presence of my mother and aunt. I
forgot everything. The carriage moved on.
'Winifred!' I gasped, as the certainty that the voice was hers came
upon me.
And the dingy London night became illuminated with scrolls of fire,
whose blinding, blasting scripture seared my eyes till I was fain to
close them: 'Let his children be vagabonds, and beg their bread: let
them seek it also out of desolate places.
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